


Starved

by nikkithedead



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Hate Sex, Humiliation, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Obsessive Behaviour, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Slash, Wet Dream, broken!Jackson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-07
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-11-07 04:50:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 13
Words: 41,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/427072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nikkithedead/pseuds/nikkithedead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek may be the werewolf, but Jackson is the one who can't control himself. He hates himself for needing him, but hunger this bad cannot be ignored.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hungry

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Set around the end of season one, but very loose with canon and the canon timeline.

Jackson's in the locker room, getting ready to take a shower when he hears the noise behind him. He knows who it is before he even tuns around, but he tells himself he's wrong. It's not him, it's just the janitor, checking to see if he's done yet so he can clean in here. It's the Coach, or one of his teammates. It's anyone but him.

"Jackson,"

Jackson squeezes his eyes shut, and tightens his grip on the towel around his waist. His voice is unmistakable; low and dark, just on the edge of gruff. His voice alone is enough to send Jackson's heart racing, but it's the nearness that really makes his pulse pound.

It shouldn't have been possible, for someone of Derek's stature to be able to move so quickly, so silently. He just entered the locker room a moment ago, but when Derek speaks he's already close enough for Jackson to feel his breath on the back of his neck. On the three claw shaped scabs that Derek gave him there. "Turn around," He commands.

Jackson tightens his jaw, and stays perfectly still for a solid three seconds. Because he's not someone that can just be bossed around, he's Jackson Whittemore. He's in control. If he turns around, it's because he felt like it. Not because Derek told him too.

Jackson turns around, and he hopes that those three seconds sent Derek that message.

Derek's face is barely an inch from his and Jackson finds himself backing up into the lockers behind him. Derek moves in closer, right into the space Jackson had been trying to put between them. Jackson swallows, looking at the flare of Derek's nostrils and the way his eyes are narrowed, glaring with unbridled hostility directly into Jackson's own.

"I-I'm not afraid of you," Jackson says, because the look on Derek's face is telling him he should be.

Derek doesn't miss a beat. "Yes you are,"

Jackson swallows again, listening to the frenzied pound of his own heart in his chest. Derek looks at him, the slightest flicker of a smirk on his face, and Jackson realizes Derek can hear it too. He knows he's lying. There's no point in pretending. Derek can hear the pounding of his heart, and smell the perspiration on his skin.

Somehow, knowing that excites him.

"Look Scott and I aren't friends, okay?" Jackson starts. "I don't know where he is, or where he's going or about anything that he does ever so why don't you just—"

"I'm not here about Scott," Derek cuts in. He's already close but somehow Derek manages to take another step towards him, so he's pressing him firmly against the locker behind him. Jackson's whole body jerks up and he lets out a shocked gasp as Derek puts a strong hand on his hip. "I'm here about you." Derek's fingers curl around the edge of Jackson's towel. The feel of Dereks fingers against his skin makes Jackson's breath quicken, and his chest rises and falls against Derek's. "It's always been about you,"

Derek gives one light pull, and Jackson's towel falls away.

* * *

Jackson bolts upright, gasping for breath and looking frantically around him. He lets out a tired, frustrated sigh when his bedroom pulls into focus around him, and he realizes. Not again.

Jackson leans forward, and puts his head in his hands. He won't be able get back to sleep now. Hell, he can barely remember what a decent, full nights sleep feels like.

The dreams have been going on for a month now, even before he knew the truth about Derek and Scott. They started out as nightmares, and in a way they still are. Jackson still wakes up sweating and scared, trembling all over... but in a different way. A  _hungrier_ way.

That's the only way Jackson can let himself think about. If he had it his way he wouldn't be thinking about it,  _any_ of it, at all. But he's long since given up trying to control where his thoughts go, what his brain obsesses over. So if he has to think about Derek Hale and the world of nightmares and monsters that he comes from, he's at least going to do it on his own terms.

So when he wakes up, night after night with his face wet with tears, his skin wet with perspiration and his boxers—

When he wakes up like that, he refuses to say that it's need or desire that claws—no, not claws, another word— _grabs_  at his chest. It's  _not_. It's  _hunger._ Hunger is the only acceptable way for him to think about it.

Hunger isn't something that can be controlled, it's not your  _fault_  if you get hungry—but it's not something that can be ignored, either.

* * *

After practice, Jackson wanders around the forrest. He has his fathers flask with him, and after an hour he's stumbling through the branches and tripping over roots. Ever since he started having those dreams, this has been his after school ritual. It's not like he has any other commitments to worry about. Not lacrosse, or school... not Lydia, Allison or Scott. Everything else he used to care about, it's all taken a back seats to the dark, growling figure that plagues his nightmares and makes his whole body shake in more ways than one.

The first few times he found himself staggering through the woods, Jackson told himself he didn't know why. It wasn't random that they were where he'd gone; there had been something pulling him towards them, that he couldn't deny. But it took him at least a week to admit he knew  _exactly_ why he needed go to the forrest.

The forrest is Derek's territory. Not just the part that's property of the Hale family, but the woods in their entirety. There isn't a tree Derek hasn't run past, a broken broken branch his feet haven't snapped. He's every where here, in the dirt and the leaves, in the humid air. And something in Jackson needs to breath that in, feel it— feel  _Derek—_ in his lungs, in his body.

Jackson trips over a particularly large root and falls forward, a thin branch scratching against his cheek as he crashes into the ground. He manages to get his arms out in front of him before he hits the ground, and his palms and knees absorb most of the impact.

Jackson grunts, and rolls over, falling onto his back. He can see his flask lying in the dirt a few feet away, and retrieving it is the only reason he can see to get up off the ground sometime in the next hour.

Jackson stares up at the trees, which seem to stretch up forever into the darkening sky from his current position on the ground.

Some where nearby, Jackson hears a twig snap. He bolts up, looking around wildly in all directions. Jackson strains his ears to hear, even though he knows that if it's  _him,_ he'll never hear him unless he wants him too.

Jackson's heart is pounding erratically in his chest, and he leans back against a tree and takes a deep breath. It's not him. He doesn't know what it was that moved, but it wasn't Derek. He doesn't know how he nows, he just does.

Jackson breaths in, and absently rubs at the back of his neck.

There's another reason that Jackson goes to the forrest every day. It's not only to be somewhere he's been, be in a place that's his. It's more pathetic than that, which truly hurts Jackson to admit because he's already all too aware of how pathetic that reason is on its own.

The thought of Derek finding him here—drunk, alone, defenceless—terrifies him. It makes his heart beat like it's trying to escape his body, it makes his eyes go round and wide and fill with hot tears. He can feel the fear in every part of his body, and it makes him dizzy.

Jackson doesn't think he's ever wanted anything more. He hates using that word,  _want,_ but he does. He wants Derek to find him, for the same sick reason he can't stop dreaming and thinking about him.

The pounding in his chest has slowed, and he steps away from the tree he was resting against and walks over to where his flask fell.

It's dark now, and he should be on his way home. It's dangerous in the woods, especially at night.

Jackson picks his flask up off the ground, and takes another swig from it as he continues deeper into the woods. If Derek's not going to find him, he's just going to need to find Derek.

* * *

When Jackson stumbles up to his property, Derek's already waiting for him on the porch. He has his arms crossed against his chest, and his face is pulled into it's usual glower. It's even more intimating under the harsh yellow porch lights, but Jackson thinks he sees a touch of curiosity in his eyes, too.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

Jackson swallows, and stares helplessly up at Derek. "I don't know," He says.

Derek looks him over, and his eyes narrow. "How did you know where I live? Did Scott tell you?"

"I—I don't know," Jackson repeats. "I just... did." He scratches at the back of his neck again.

Derek continues to stare at him, and somehow the glower on his face seems to darken. "You're not here about becoming one of us, are you?" He asks. "Scott told me you've been threatening him," Derek's eyes flash, and Jackson feels that familiar fear creep up his back. Evidently a threat to Scott was a threat to Derek as well. "Sorry, but I can't give it to you either."

Jackson's blood began to pound in his ears. The words  _"I can't give it to you,"_ echo in his diseased mind. He ignores the rest.

Derek must have decided that was the end of their conversation, and he turns to go back into the house. Jackson lurches after him, tripping up the steps to his house with clubbed feet. "Yes you can,"

Derek pauses in the doorway, and looks at him over his shoulder. "No, I  _can't,_ " He repeats. He walks into the house and swings the door shut, but Jackson reaches out and grabs it before it can close. Since Derek doesn't stop him, Jackson takes it for an invitation and follows Derek into his dilapidated home.

"Wait, I need—"

The air rushes out of Jackson's lungs as Derek shoves him against the wall, making it shake. "I told you, I can't give you what you want," Derek all but growls at him. "Why are you still here?"

Black stars swim in front of Jackson's eyes, and he struggles to focus on Derek's face. This was just like all his nightmares, except it was so much worse because it was real. He wasn't just dreaming about Derek shoving him around, pressing his hands against Jackson's chest. Hands that could at any moment turn into claws and rip him apart.

"I-I need—" Jackson stammers, trying to get his head on his shoulder. He shouldn't have come here without a plan. No, he shouldn't have come here  _period._ But Jackson had always been the type that put what he  _wants_ to do far before what he  _should_ do. "I need you to give—"

Derek bares his teeth and slams him into the wall again. "What part of 'I can't' don't you understand? You're barking up the wrong tree."

Jackson opens his mouth a little, but says nothing. If he'd been Stiles Stilinksi, he probably would have made a joke about that. But he wasn't, thank god.

Thinking about Stiles Stilinksi and his stupid face stir up the slightest sliver of anger in him, and with that anger comes an even smaller sliver of confidence. It's barely there, but it's enough to remind him that he's  _not_ Stiles Stilinski, stammering, fumbling class clown. He's Jackson Whittemore.

"You're not listening to me," Jackson says. It comes out with his usual air of self assurance and annoyance, just like he'd intended. "That's not what I'm talking about. I don't  _want_ the friggin' bite."

That's a lie, but it doesn't matter. What matters is that isn't what he's here about now. Now he has more pressing things to deal with.

Derek pushes his face right into Jackson's, glaring at him. His breath is harsh on his face. "Then  _what_ do you  _want?_ "

Derek's so close now, too close. The bit of control Jackson felt a moment ago seems to dwindle and evaporate, under the heat of Derek's breath and the pierce of his eyes. Jackson can't stop himself from doing it, the worst thing he could ever have thought to do. He leans in and presses his mouth against Derek's, as hard as he can.

It's probably the stupidest thing he's ever done, but that's how desperate he is. A starved man will chew off his own arm if he has too. He'll rip out his own throat, just for the relief.

Jackson kisses Derek, not because he wants or even needs to, but because he  _has_ to. He kisses him, and in his chest he thinks he feels his heart finally give in and explode. It's sick of fighting, sick of pounding and struggling, and the press of Derek's lips and the feel of his stubble are too much. Jackson's heart just bursts.

All this time, all the nightmares and looking over his shoulder in the locker room, wandering stupidly around the forrest hoping and fearing being found by a killer, he hadn't ever given much thought to what it would be like to ever kiss Derek, really.

Now he knew. Kissing Derek felt like dying.

Derek seems to get a grip on himself and he pulls away, and slams Jackson back into the wall. His knuckles press painfully into Jackson's chest, and his nostrils flare angrily as he breaths. "What the hell was that?" He asks, shaking him a little. "Are you out of your _mind?_ "

It takes Jackson a moment to answer, because his mind is still catching up with what's happening. Once it does, what's possibly the most important thing about the kiss occurs to him. "You kissed me back," He says. He actually manages a smirk.

Derek glares at him a moment longer, then drops his arms from Jackson's chest. "Go home, Jackson." He says, taking a step back.

Jackson's mouth falls open.  _"What?"_ This wasn't what was supposed to happen. Derek wasn't supposed to back off, he was supposed to throw Jackson onto the floor, shred his clothes and do things to him that would leave him raw and aching in the morning.

"You're drunk, you're bleeding, and you're and a lot more disturbed then I'd have guessed." Derek brushes a thumb over the cut on Jackson's cheek, from where he fell in the woods. Jackson hisses in pain and jerks his face away, and Derek just shakes his head. "Go home, before I do something you'll regret." Derek turns and walks away again, without so much as a look over his shoulder to see if Jackson is leaving. Like he's not even worth that much.

Fury and hurt burn in Jackson's gut, and he storms forward and grabs Derek's shoulder. Derek turns around and Jackson kisses him again, even harder this time. He slams his whole body into Derek's with the intention of knocking Derek back on the stairs, but Derek doesn't budge.

Jackson pulls back and feels his face turn red. "Can you just give it up already?" He shouts. It was never this difficult in his nightmares. He never had to  _work_ for it.

Derek shakes his head. "You're drunk," He says again, as though it's something that matters. "You wouldn't be here if you weren't."

Jackson looks at Derek, and laughs. "Of  _course_ I wouldn't be!" Jackson says, his laugh shaking and tittering out of his mouth. "Drunk is the only way I could have come here. If I was sober, I'd be at home, slamming my head into the wall and  _wishing_ I was drunk so I could just get it over with and  _come here_."

Derek raises one eyebrow at him. "Have you ever even had sex with a man before?" He asks. Something about Derek's tone seems to imply that he  _has._ The thought sends Jackson's pulse racing.

Jackson shakes his head, and leans back in towards Derek. He puts a shaking hand between Derek's legs, and Derek's entire body seems to stiffen. "No," Jackson breaths, looking up into Derek's eyes. "But I don't want to have sex with a man." He says. "I want to get fucked by a beast."

There's not much talking after that.

Derek practically drags Jackson up to his room, and throws him down onto his bed. He doesn't tear off his clothes, but in every other way he's just as rough and forceful as Jackson had dreamed he'd be. He's so strong, so dominant that Jackson doesn't even bother fighting or struggling, even when it hurts so much he almost passes out.  _Especially_ then.

Jackson doesn't stop being terrified, not for a second. Not when Derek's mouth is on his, not when he moves it down along his body, dragging his tongue over his chest and licking at his navel. Not when Derek pauses, and comes back up to Jackson's mouth one more time before disappearing back down between Jackson's thighs. There isn't a single moment when he forgets the man he's with is a monster, who's probably killed people before and could kill him now if he wanted to. Derek could do  _anything_ to him now, and there wouldn't be a thing Jackson could do to stop him.

Jackson's never felt more free. For what feels like the first time in years, he doesn't need to struggle or fight or work, because there's absolutely no point. It's all out of his hands, and entirely in Derek's. He's completely beyond control.

When it's over, Jackson feels like he's been ripped apart at the seams, and just barely thrown back together. His whole body aches, in ways and places he hadn't felt ache before. He's been flipped inside out and turned back again, emptied of all the worthless feelings and fears he's kept bottled up for so long.

He lies on Derek's bed and stares up at the dirty, flame licked ceiling above him, his chest rising and falling steadily. Derek's lips, and the gentle rub of his stubble against his neck, are the last thing he feels before he drifts away to sleep.

It's the best nights sleep he's had in a month.


	2. The Morning

Jackson is slow waking up in the morning. His head feels heavy and there's a sharp pounding in his temples. He groans and squeezes his eyes tightly, dreading the thought of having to move. Every muscle in his body is aching. Lacrosse practice is going to be torture.

Then his eyes pop open, round and wide in spite of the harsh morning light as it comes rushing back to him. He remembers what he did the night before, and where he is now.

 _Oh fuck. Oh_ fuck.

Jackson in Derek Hale's bed. That alone is enough to get his breathing having, but of course there's more. He's not just in Derek's bed, he's in his  _arms._

Jackson scrambles out of them as fast as he can. He practically trips off the bed and over to the other side of the room before he even processes that he's not wearing any clothes. He panics once he does, and looks wildly around the room for his underwear, his pants, his jacket— _anything._

He winds up grabbing the sheets from off the bed and wrapping them hurriedly around his waist, just to get himself covered up in some capacity while he looks for his clothes.

Once Jackson's gets the sheet secured, he looks up to find Derek awake and sitting up in the bed, his eyebrows raised in amusement. Jackson's face burns red. How long has he been watching him for?  _Fuck._

"What the hell, man?" Jackson sputters. "What the hell was that?"

Derek tilts his chin up. "What the hell was  _what?_ "

"You—your arms—you were  _holding_ me," He points accusingly with one hand while the other grips firmly onto the sheets around his hips, as if for fear that Derek may charge over at any moment and rip them off his body. A shiver runs down Jackson's spine. The thoughts just barely run through his head, and he's already _hard_ just imagining it. What the hell is his problem? "What's your problem?"

Derek's eyes narrow, and the amusement leaves his face. He leans forward and gives Jackson a hard look. "You came to me last night, drunk and bleeding, begging me to fuck you—"

"I was  _not begging!_ " Jackson protests.

"You werebegging," Derek repeats, rising off the bed. The comforter falls away from him, and unlike Jackson he makes no attempts to cover himself. Jackson breath hitches. "And you  _kept_ begging. All. Night. Long." Derek walks towards him, and Jackson presses himself back against the wall. His memory of the night before is fuzzy, but he has a feeling Derek's telling the truth.

Derek's right in front of him, and he puts a hand on the back of Jackson's neck and pulls him in. Jackson gasps and it's such a weak sound he wants to kill himself for making it. But Derek's pressed up against him, right up against him soJackson can feel him through the sheet. And he's already so hard, and Derek's body is so _cruelly warm._ He gasps again, higher and more broken than before. Like a whine. Derek presses against him, and Jackson  _whines._

"After all that," Derek breaths, practically grinding against Jackson. Jackson is all but writhing underneath him. "You wake up screaming and shouting, stumbling around like Bambi on ice, and then you want to know what's wrong with  _me?_ "

Just like that, Jackson comes. And God, he hates himself  _so much_ for it. His body spasms against Derek's and he puts his hands on Derek's chest to keep his knees from buckling under him. "Oh  _fuck,_ " Jackson drops his head against Derek's shoulder, and wishes he was dead with every ragged breath he pulls in. "Fuck."

Derek just sighs and shakes his head, and if there's anything he could have done to make Jackson feel even more ashamed, that was it. "And now you ruined my sheets, too," Derek says, stepping back from him and prying Jackson's fingers off his body.

Jackson expects his legs to give out with out Derek to lean against, but somehow he manages to stay standing up. Derek turns and walks away from him, and Jackson's already so  _sick_ of that. Derek turning his back on him, walking away. Because Jackson can't walk or run away from this, whatever  _this_ is. God knows he's tried.

Because it's the most pathetic thing Jackson can think to do, he falls down to his knees.

Derek turns around at the sound of Jackson's knees thudding on the floor, and he raises one eyebrow.  _"What_ are you doing? _"_ He asks. His voice is disinterested, bored even, but since he's not wearing a stitch of clothing, Jackson can see Derek's not as nearly unaffected as he'd like Jackson to believe.

"Begging," Jackson says. He's still panting from his orgasm a moment ago, and he knows he sounds ragged. Ruined even. Pathetic.

It doesn't matter. It's not like there's any point in trying to pretend he has any pride left. They both know he doesn't. Maybe that was the point, in some fucked up way. Maybe that was what he'd wanted all along. To be shamed, his ego damaged beyond all hope of recovery. Humiliated to a point where there would be nothing he could do to earn his pride back... so there would be no reason to try. No reason to put up a front, nothing left to protect. He was at rock bottom without a ladder... there was nothing left to do but wallow in the mud.

"That's what you want, right?" Jackson asks. His cheeks burn, but he forces himself to keep eye contact with Derek. "Me on my knees, begging you to fuck me again."

"Actually I kind of want you to leave," Derek says, walking over to him. He stares down at Jackson with his usual glower, but Jackson sees, just like the night before, there's a spark of curiosity in his eyes. Jackson's interested him, just a little. And he knows Derek doesn't intend for him to see that, Derek who prides himself on his own control and composure, the very things Jackson's come to have destroyed.

Jackson licks his lips and looks up at Derek. "Please?" He says. He can't deny how much he needs this, needs Derek to fuck him, reach inside of him and destroy him so he can be whole again, if only for a little. Hiding behind semantics was comforting, but it didn't change anything. Jackson  _needs_  him and he wants him, and like everything else he needs and wants, he's going to  _have_ him, too. No matter how hard he has to work for it.

Derek doesn't say anything, and Jackson takes it as consent.

When he reaches up for Derek, his hand shakes a little. No, more than his hand. His whole body is shaking, as he curls his fingers around Derek and begins stroking him. Jackson moves his hand up and down, and his eyes move up on there own, searching for some kind of reaction. A whimper, a moan, a slight move of his head. Anything to let him know that Derek's human too, just like him. That he feels things and wants them just the same way.

There's nothing. Derek doesn't flinch, his lips don't part, his back doesn't arch. The only part of him that reacts is the part Jackson's touching. At least he can't control _that._

Jackson slides his hand along him, and breathes furiously through his nose. Derek's reaction—or lack there of—is insulting, but it's more than that. How can he remain so composed, so unaffected? If Jackson was in his position he knew he wouldn't be able to control himself, wouldn't be able to stop himself from moaning, crying out...

"Are you angry about something?" Derek asks, startling Jackson. Jackson jerks his hand to the side a little in surprise, and Derek winces and sucks his breath in. Jackson lets go, and Derek pulls away slightly. "Jesus, Jackson,"

Jackson glares up at him. "Oh so you can feel something there," He says dryly.

Derek raises an eyebrow, and flicks his eyes over Jackson's kneeling figure. Then he smiles slightly, taunting him. "Did I hurt your feelings?"

Jackson seethes a little, and puts his hands on Derek's hips, pulling him back towards him.  _"No,"_ He lies, sitting up on his knees. He puts his hand back around Derek, who's still smirking at him. "I was just worried you were numb from last night, and couldn't feel anything."

Derek snorts. "Please," He says, reaching forward and putting his hand in Jackson's hair. Jackson feels goosebumps on the back of his neck. "It takes a lot more than that to wear me out."

Derek's words don't offend Jackson nearly as much as they're intended to, but Jackson furrows his brow anyways. Hopefully if he plays angry, which he still sort of is, Derek won't be able to tell that all he's thinking about is how badly he wants to test that out. Werewolf stamina. Fuck.

"We'll see," Jackson mumbles, leaning in towards Derek. His lips barely taste him before Derek's grip tightens in his hair and his head is yanked back. Jackson cries out and tries to pry Derek's fingers out of his hair, but it's no good.

"You've never done this before," Derek says.

"I'm a fast learner," Jackson snaps. Derek doesn't let go, but Jackson feels his grip loosen as Derek seems to consider it.

Derek crouches down, and points a finger in Jackson's face. "Listen carefully," He says, speaking slowly and deliberately. "If you bite me, at all, believe me when I say _I will bite you back._ "

Derek releases Jackson's head and stands back up. "Thanks for the pep talk," Jackson mutters, "I feel really put at ease."

"I didn't know you came here to be put at ease," Derek says. "I seem to recall something about wanting a  _beast_ to fu—"

Jackson puts his lips around Derek, just to stop him from finishing that sentence. It's probably sad that stopping mid-sentence is the best reaction he's gotten from Derek so far. Jackson intends to change that.

Jackson sits up higher on his knees again, and puts his hands back on Derek's hips, trying to get a better angle. Then he sits there, unsure of how to proceed.

 _I have a dick in my mouth,_ Jackson thinks stupidly.

 _Of course you do, you pathetic idiot,_ another voice in his head snaps.  _You_ put  _it there. Now_ do  _something with it!_

But what?

Luckily for Jackson, his question of what to do is answered for him when Derek grabs his head and pushes it further down on his dick. Jackson gags, and tears swim in his eyes.  _"Do something,"_ Derek snaps, echoing the voice in Jacksons head.

Jackson smacks Derek's hand away and moves his head back up a bit. Then he  _sucks,_ as hard and angrily as he can. He hopes the  _angry_ part of it gets through to Derek, because somehow an angry blowjob seems more dignified than the regular kind. It's semantics again, but Jackson allows himself comfort in it.

Then Derek groans. It's low and deep, and it lingers in his throat and in the air. Jackson looks up at Derek, and sees his eyes are closed and his mouth is opened slightly, the last remnants of his groan still on his lips. And Jackson wants to hear that noise  _again._

Jackson pulls his mouth away and looks up at Derek. "Put your hands back in my hair," He demands.

Derek opens his eyes and looks at him.  _"_ What? _"_

"Just  _do_ it," Jackson says. He puts his lips against Derek and kisses him, and flicks his tongue over him. Derek makes a noise and does what Jackson says, grabbing his hair and pushing Jackson's head down for more. Jackson smirks, and breathes heavily against him. "Make me," He says, kissing Derek again. He lifts his eyes up and looks at Derek. "I won't do it if you don't make me,"

Derek stares down at him for a moment. "There's something... wrong, with you," He says shortly. Jackson doesn't deny it. He knows. Derek sighs and pulls Jackson's head in again, thrusting his hips forward into Jackson's face.

Jackson smiles, and then puts his mouth back over him. This time Derek pushes against him, holding his head still so he has no choice but to take it. Derek shoves into him again and again, grunting each time he fucks into Jackson's begging mouth. And Jackson loves it. His eyes water and his fingers dig into Derek's hips, but he's bobbing his head in time with Derek's thrusts and moaning around his dick.

" _Jackson,"_ Derek growls, sending shivers down Jackson's spine. There's something terrifying and wonderful about the way Derek says his name, that drives Jackson crazy. Derek doesn't just  _say_ his name, he says it as though it's something he owns. Something that  _belongs_  to him.

Jackson barely even notices when he starts to jerk himself off. He's completely lost in the taste of Derek in his mouth, and the sting at the back his throat, and the way Derek groans and sighs when Jackson pushes his tongue against him. "Jackson—"

Derek shoves him off and Jackson whines in protest. He doesn't even care anymore, he'll moan and whine all he has to. Fucking beg Derek for his dick.

Jackson's whines are only met with more grunts as Derek ignores him, and braces one hand against the wall behind him. His other hand is wrapped around the base of his dick as he pushes himself over the edge. Derek drops his chin down against his chest as he comes, and his mouth falls open as a long, low sigh erupts from the back of his throat. Jackson's heart pounds as he watches him.

Derek breaths heavily, and leans his forearm against the wall. "Jackson, stand up," He orders.

"Why?" Jackson asks, getting to his feet anyways. Derek grabs him and thrusts him against the wall. He presses his mouth sloppily against Jackson's neck, and starts jerking him off. His rough fingers are slicked and wet, and Jackson's eyes almost roll back into his head when it clicks that that's not  _lube_ coating them.

"Think you can last longer than five seconds?" Derek asks, moving his mouth up and pressing it against Jackson's ear. Jackson bites down on his lip, and shuts his eyes as Derek trails his tongue along his ear. "Five, four, three, two—"

Jackson's body gives out, and his toes curl up as he comes over Derek's hand. Derek snorts, and Jackson feels him pull away. When he opens his eyes, Derek's crouching down beside the pile of sheets on the floor, wiping his hand off on them. "You should probably go to school," Derek says, standing back up.

Jackson swallows, and sinks down against the wall. The floor is dirty and cold, but he doesn't care. School, right. He has a life outside Derek's burnt up house, beyond getting fucked and humiliated.

"Jackson," Derek says sharply, and Jackson turns his head towards him. "Did you hear me?" Jackson nods. "Good." Derek turns and walks away again, walks away _again,_ and pauses in the doorway of his room. "Your clothes are on the dresser," He says.

Then he's gone and Jackson is left naked, trembling, and alone.


	3. Seconds

After he spent the night—and part of the morning—with Derek, Jackson somehow had it in his head that he'd be over him, wouldn't need him anymore. He'd thought things would get better. The nightmares would stop, he wouldn't keep finding himself drunkenly wandering through the woods after school every day... he'd be able to focus on normal shit again.

He'd been an idiot. Such a fucking idiot.

It didn't get better. Not one single thing. In fact, everything just got a hell of a lot worse.

The nightmares became more vivid, more intense. Jackson would wake up in the middle of the night with his dick in his hand, red and burned raw from his fervent unconscious tuggings. And he'd cry and bite down on his lip as he finished it, pumping his fist up and down no matter how much it hurt.

It had been horrible before. A horrible, shameful secret he'd carried around with him day after day and night after endless night. Horrible, humiliating and pathetic, was what it had been. And now it was so much worse. Because now it was more than a sick fantasy, more than just a bawdy nightmare or wet dream. Now it was  _real._ Or it had been real. He didn't need to fantasize about it would feel like to have Derek throw him to the floor and fuck him until knees buckled because  _it had happened._

And now that he knew what it felt like, what  _Derek_ felt like, tasted like... he wanted to taste it again. He'd been hungry before, ravenous even. Now he was starved.

His nightmares aren't just at night anymore, either. Now reveries of Derek Hale plague him during the day, too. Jackson will be sitting in class and suddenly Derek is the only thing he can think of. Thinking about the way Derek can pick him and throw him around like he's nothing, and the way Derek's fingers feel when their digging into his hips. Thinking about the wet warmth of Derek's mouth, and how he looks kneeling in front of him...

And then Jackson's heart starts beating too fast, and he breaks out into a sweat. First his palms, then all over. His back and shoulders stiffen, then his dick. And he's just trapped like that, sweaty and hard and in the middle of chem or history or something.

It's like humiliation has taken itself to a whole new level.

That's not even the worst part. The worst part is fucking  _McCall_. The guy can't mind his own goddamned business. He thinks Jackson has some kind of panic disorder, and keeps trying to  _talk_  to him about it. Or telling him to talk to  _Stiles_ about it. Stiles knows how to deal with that kind of stuff, Scott says to him. Of course he does, Jackson snaps back. If he had to be Stiles Stilinksi every day, he'd panic too.

After school, Jackson works out in the locker-room. Because he needs to do  _something._ Because he's not going back to the woods. No fucking way. No more. He's done with stumbling around like an idiot, praying Derek will find him or he'll find Derek. He's  _done_ with that now. No more woods, no more Derek, no more any of it.

He may not be able to control where his mind goes, but he can control his body—mostly. He can control where it  _goes,_ at least.

When he works out, Jackson doesn't get a spotter. It's dangerous and reckless but then again so is wandering drunk through monster populated woods at night. And he didn't just do that, he did that in the hopes that he'd be found by the biggest, baddest monster of all. And when he wasn't, he'd gone  _looking_ for him. Found him, too. And then fucked him, in various painful and back-breaking positions that he was still sore from even three weeks after the fact.

So when he thinks about that—and these days there was little else he did think about—lifting some weights alone doesn't seem so reckless after all.

Jackson grunts, feeling his muscles burn and his arms shake as he lifts the barbell high above his head. Beads of sweat are forming on his bare arms and chest. He concentrates hard on what he's doing and counts out his reps. Three, four, five... his muscles burn and stretch but he pushes on... ten, eleven, twelve... not enough, he needs to do more... thirteen... fourteen...

The burn is so bad he can't take it anymore, and Jackson lets the weights crash down in the holder behind him, and his arms flop uselessly down to his side. His arms and chest feel like they're actually on fire, but it's a welcome pain because at least he's not thinking about Derek. Anything but Derek. Give him pain and misery and suffering, but not Derek.

Jackson lies panting on the bench and eventually the burn begins to ease it's way out of his muscles. Just for a moment, Jackson lets his eyes close. Only for a moment though, because as always the moment his eyes shut the only thing he sees in the darkness is Derek.

Jackson opens his eyes up again after a minute, and his heart jumps up into his throat because somehow opening his eyes doesn't make Derek go away. Somehow he's still looming over him, his face pulled into that ever constant glare.

And Jackson looks up at Derek, and he thinks he's finally cracked _._ His obsession's finally elevated to the point where it's not just nightmares and daydreams anymore, it's full on hallucinations. A helluva hallucination, too. He can't just  _see_  Derek standing above him, he can smell him, too. That slightly smokey leather smell Jackson knows is infused into his skin. He can even  _feel Derek,_ feel him with that weird, scary sense that had taken him into the forrest all those times, and then later to Derek's house, even when he shouldn't, couldn't have known to find it.

But that's not it, Jackson realizes. He hasn't cracked, at least not yet—Derek is actually standing over him in the locker-room. Jackson might be crazy and obsessed, but at the moment he's not hallucinating.

Instinctively Jackson attempts to sit up, but Derek's hand comes out and slams into his chest, shoving him back down against the bench. "What the hell?" Jackson demands. He's only mildly ashamed to realize he's already fantasizing about Derek shoving him down on the bench so he can climb on top of him and fuck him right here. God, let that that be it. After the hell he's been through the last few weeks, Derek practically owes him.

Derek's eyes flick up, and Jackson follows his gaze up to the barbell positioned above him. If Derek hadn't stopped him, he would have smacked his head right into it. "...Oh," He says. Derek rolls his eyes and straightens up, and Jackson's cheeks burn as he sits up again, careful this time to avoid the weight.

Jackson stands up and grabs his towel from the hook on the wall, glaring at Derek. "What are you doing here?" He asks, making sure to sound extra annoyed about it, as though he isn't salivating at the sight of him. Two minutes in Derek's presence, and weeks of "I'm over him" and "it's done now" are completely out the window. But it's not like he'd ever really believed that, anyways.

Derek crosses his arms and looks him over. "I'm here to talk to you about those panic attacks you've been having," He says. Jackson freezes. "I hear they're pretty bad."

Jackson grinds his teeth. " _McCall,_ " He seethes. He's going to murder his flea-bitten ass.

Derek smirks at him. "Scott's really concerned. See, he thinks I've been harassing you, and it's driving you crazy." Derek takes a step forward, and Jackson presses himself back against the lockers. Derek leans in and braces his hands against the lockers on either side of Jackson, staring him down. He's not smirking anymore, and Jackson's heart beat quickens.

"Why would he think you have something to do with it?" Jackson asks, beginning to feel a slight  _pang_ of panic. He's 99% sure that "mind-reading" isn't on the list of special werewolf powers. "That doesn't—"

"After you were with me that day, did you go to school?" Derek interrupts.

Jackson furrows his brow. "What—"

Derek slams his hand into the lockers behind him, rattling them and making Jackson jump. "After you had  _sex_ with me, did you go to school?" He repeats, louder.

"Yes—no. Yes and no," Jackson blabbers. "I went to school in the afternoon, but—but first I went home, to shower and change my clothes."

Derek narrows his eyes, peering straight into Jackson's. "You showered?" He asks. Jackson nods quickly. "Well, not well enough I guess. Scott could smell me on you."

Jackson's eyes went wide. He hadn't even thought of that. "What—but, he just thinks you just attacked me!" He said. "So he doesn't know. It's okay,"

Derek looks away, and Jackson can see his jaw tighten. "No, it's not. If he'd been any smarter, he would have figured it out." Derek turns back, and Jackson's breath hitches. Derek's eyes are blazing blue, glowing. "That can't happen, do you understand?"

Jackson swallows, and steps forward a little, putting his face right in Derek's. "Do  _you_ understand that I would  _kill myself_ before I let anyone find out?" He asks.

Derek blinks, and the blue glow fades from his eyes. For a moment, he looks taken aback. Jackson smirks a little, and then pushes his mouth against Derek's in a hard kiss. He feels Derek's hands slide down the lockers and grip his hips, and he tries to jerk them forward against Derek's, but Derek's hands hold him still. Jackson grunts in frustration.

"Not now," Derek grumbles, although he doesn't move away. "Not here,"

Jackson ignores him, putting his hand on the back of Derek's head. "Yes now," He says, pulling at Derek's hair to get a rise out of him. He feels Derek's fingers press into his hips and he kisses him harder. "Yes here..."

Jackson cries out as Derek fingers dig  _painfully_ deep into his hips, and Derek pulls back. "Someone could walk in." He says, taking his hands off Jackson.

Jackson grinds his teeth, his frustration quickly boiling back up inside him. Weeks, it had been  _weeks_  and he'd needed him so badly. And now Derek was here, and Jackson was shirtless and sweaty and practically ready to keel over and die, and still he told him "wait." "Won't you hear them?" Jackson asks through gritted teeth. "Or smell them or whatever else it is you freaks do?"

Derek glares at him for a moment, and Jackson thinks he's probably debating whether or not to ignore his jabs. "Not if I'm distracted I won't," Derek says, taking another step back like it's just the easiest thing in the world. Of course he chooses to ignore Jackson's attempts to rile him up. Derek is above childish taunts, as always. Above Jackson's furious immaturity.. "Meet me at my house," He says.

Jackson shuts his eyes for a moment, trying to get a gripe on his anger. When he opens his eyes again, only a moment later, Derek is gone.

* * *

Jackson doesn't even bother telling himself he's not going to go to Derek's house.  _Of course_ he is. He doesn't even bother to shower, he just throws his clothes on and gets out to the parking lot as fast as he can. Thankfully schools been over for an hour now, so he doesn't run into anyone. And on the way to Derek's house, somehow he manages not to run  _over_ anyone, either.

When he pulls up to the dark, decrepit house, Derek isn't on the porch waiting for him like he'd expected.

Jackson kills the engine of his porsche, and slowly gets out. "Derek?" He calls, wandering up the charred steps. He looks around, and then goes to knock on the front door. He hits his fist against the wood, the door creaks open on it's own. It's stupid, but the sound of the creaking door sends chills down his spine.

It's against his better judgement to go inside, but so is practically everything he does. The floor boards creak just as loudly as the door as he walks in. He's fighting the urge to flee with every step, but the urge for Derek is considerably stronger so he doesn't. He walks up the stairs, trying not to consider the likelihood of them collapsing under his feet. Or the entire house collapsing around him. Nothing in here looks very stable, and it's all dark and grungy. Why Derek chooses to  _live_ in a place like this, Jackson will never understand.

Jackson looks around again, growing increasingly panicky. Why wasn't Derek here? He did mean for Jackson to meet him here  _now,_ didn't he? Not like, in a week or something. _Now,_ today.

"Derek?" Jackson calls again, his voice a mix of fear and annoyance. "This is seriously not funny—"

Jackson cries out as something slams into him like a truck and knocks him backwards. His thoughts immediately go back to the attack at the video store, and the school and a fresh wave of terror washes over him as he scrambles to his feet. His mind jumps back and forth between running or hiding, running or hiding. He'll never be able to out run a werewolf, but if he hides it could smell him out—

Before he can make a decision, he's slammed back into a wall. The wall shakes and pain blankets his shoulders and back, but he's never been so relieved. It's not the monster that attacked him in the store, just the one that attacks him in his dreams every night and day. Jackson's really never been so grateful to see someone. "You fucking asshole!" He shouts, because that's how Jackson Whittemore expresses gratitude.

Derek grins at him, all condescension and mockery. "Scared?" He asks, as if it isn't obvious.

" _No,"_ Jackson sneers. As if it wasn't obvious.

"Yes you were" Derek says, leaning in a little. He doesn't let go of the front of Jackson's shirt, keeping him firmly pressed against the wall. But now that Jackson's fear is gone, and his anger is ebbing away, he's starting to be alright with it. "I can hear your heartbeat... racing..." He presses he mouth against Jackson's throat.

Jackson moans, and let's his head fall back against the wall, exposing his throat to Derek. "Why did you do that?" He mutters, closing his eyes. Derek doesn't answer for a moment, which is fine because his tongue is licking along Jackson's skin. It makes Jackson forget that he's even asked a question, and when Derek does answer, it takes Jackson a second to remember what he's talking about.

"Because you like it," Derek says, taking his mouth away from Jackson's neck and looking him in the eye. "You get off on feeling afraid—" Jackson's eyes get wide as Derek holds up one hand, and flicks it to unsheathe his claws. He puts a long, sharp nail against Jackson's cheek, trailing it down lightly. Derek's not pressing at all, but Jackson can still feel how sharp it is. "You want someone that terrifies you, shakes you to your core... someone that can and  _will_ hurt you, because that's what you need..."

Derek's mouth is tantalizingly close to Jacksons, close enough that Jackson can feel his breath on his lips and tongue... but not close enough to touch. "That's why you're here, with me," Derek continues, his voice dark and low. "And not someone like your friend Danny, or Stiles..."

Jackson had let his eyes close again, but now they snap back open and glare at Derek.  _"Stiles?"_ He sneers, caught between being shocked and offended. "Stiles  _Stilinski?_ "

"No, the other Stiles," Derek says. Jackson continues to glare. "Yes Stiles  _Stilinksi,_ "

"Why—of all the human beings in the  _entire world—_ would you suggest that I'd ever have  _anything_ to do with Stiles Spazlinksi, ever, at all?"

For a moment Jackson thinks Derek's going to laugh—maybe not laugh, but maybe chuckle, or smile or something. The look in his eyes has just a hint of a smile in it. It's gone in a moment, no laughter to accompany it... but still, it  _had_ been there. And not because he was taunting or mocking him.  _Genuine_ amusement, a real  _almost_ smile. It's not much, but because it's Derek "Ice Cold" Hale, it feels like a small victory. Jackson wants to shout "ha you almost laughed! You  _do_ have emotions! I knew it!" He doesn't, because that strikes him as something Stilinski would do and the day he does or says something Stilinski would do is the day he puts his fathers rile in his mouth and shoots his face off.

"Does that offend you?" Jackson asks instead, going back to Derek's original comment. "That I'm scared of you?"

Derek looks at him, and Jackson can practically see the word "yes" on his lips. Just like the laughter, it never comes. "Offend isn't the word," Derek says. That's not what Jackson had expected, either. Jackson waits, but Derek never tells him what "the word" is.

Jackson would press it, but then Derek kisses him, hard and hungry, and he stops caring. He's sick of talking anyways. That's not what he came here for.

Derek's grabs Jackson by the front his shirt again, and he yanks him away from the wall. Derek ushes him over to the bed and Jackson stumbles backwards, his hands scrambling at the mattress as he tries to steady himself.

Jackson's already hard as Derek advances towards him, pulling off his leather jacket and tossing it aside as he does. And Jackson's so ridiculously pent up, he just knows he's going to come in about three seconds.

Derek has one knee up on the bed, and he smirks as Jackson struggles with getting his own jacket off. Somehow it seems a lot more difficult than it usually does, especially with Derek staring at him like he's a piece of meat he'd like to rip into.

"Jesus Christ," Derek mutters, rolling his eyes and taking pity on Jackson. Derek yanks his jacket off of him with ease, and then does the same his shirts and pants. Everything is so _easy_ for Derek.

The air around him is cold, and Jackson shivers now that he's only in his underwear. He swallows thickly as Derek removes his own shirt and moves in—for a kiss, Jackson thinks—but then Derek grabs his wrists and pins them up above his head. Jackson's eyes clench tight, and he knows he can't hold on for much longer. Somehow it feels like he's been holding on for three whole weeks.

Derek's grip tightens on his wrist. "Jackson," He growls. "Don't come,"

Jackson's jaw tightens. " _What—_ "

"Don't come," Derek repeats, like he's asking something simple, or physically possible. He might as well say "Jackson, don't  _breath_ for an hour."

Jackson opens his eyes and narrows them at Derek. "Fuck you," He mutters. Derek's grip tightens painfully around his wrists, and Jackson cries out. "That's making it  _worse_ you moron!" Jackson's whole body is tensed up, his toes curled painfully and his feet twisting under Derek, and he realizes that stupid as Derek's request, he's actually trying to  _listen._

Derek smirks, and this time does lean in to kiss him. Derek is straddling his hips, and his warm body is a welcome relief from the cold air. To express his gratitude, Jackson bites down on Derek's lip as he kisses him. Derek's only reply is a snort of laughter, like it's so funny that Jackson is biting  _him._

"You really do want to be one of us, huh?" Derek mumbles, kissing down Jackson's neck to avoid the  _annoyance_ of his bites.

" _No,"_ Except yes.

Derek lets go of his wrists, and puts his hands on Jackson's hips and hauls him up. "Tell me how you don't want it, Jackson," Derek says, his fingers pressing into Jackson's back. "Slowly."

Jackson just glares at him. "That's  _not_ fair,"

Derek smiles, and Jackson can see his fangs coming out. He feels lightheaded. "Nothing ever is," He leans in, and his lips brush Jackson's neck. Derek opens his mouth wider, and Jackson gasps as he feels the press of Derek's fangs. "Tell me, Jackson..." Derek murmurs, tilting his head down to kiss Jackson's collar bone. He's being slow, and careful, which tells Jackson that he still hasn't retracted the fangs yet.

Jackson groans. "All I want right now is to come," He says, truthfully.

Derek lifts his head back up and grins again. It looks like his fangs have gotten even bigger. Jackson feels one of Derek's hands drift down his front, and he sucks his breath in as Derek yanks down the front of his boxers, and takes him in his hand. Jackson bites down on his lip. If Derek still tells him "don't come" he's going to murder him. "Kiss me," Derek says. "And I'll let you come,"

Jackson hesitates, looking at Derek's sharp, deadly, all-too-capable-of-accidently-ripping-his-mouth-off fangs. His desire to not be maimed wrestles with his need to come, and then he leans in and presses his lips to Derek's. He tries to be careful, but when he feels Derek's hand begin to slide up and down his dick, the kiss becomes faster, and more desperate. Derek's hand is rough and dry, but Jackson's so close it doesn't seem to matter. He could probably get off just looking at Derek, or having Derek growl his name into his ear... actual touch is just a bonus at this point.

Something like curiosity, or maybe a death wish, takes hold of Jackson and he tentatively pushes his tongue into Derek's mouth. He feels Derek start in surprise, and he takes that as encouragement. He flicks his tongue over Derek's teeth, and his shoulders tense as it brushes over a long, smooth fang.

Jackson moans into Derek's mouth as he comes, and his whole body jerks and tenses up against him. His lip snags on one of Derek's fangs, but he's so blissed out he doesn't notice.

Derek does. He swipes his thumb along Jackson's lip, and when Jackson sees the blood on his finger he realizes what happened, but he's still too blissed out to care. He just came; it doesn't matter if he's bleeding. Life is great for at least another 30 seconds.

Jackson looks at Derek's thumb with his blood on it, and flashes back to when he'd wiped a bit of chocolate off Alison's lips in a similar way. He wonders if Derek's about to put his thumb in his mouth, and suck the blood off it like he'd done with the chocolate. If he does, Jackson's pretty sure he's going to come again.

Derek wipes the blood off on his jeans, and Jackson sighs. He lets himself crash back down on the bed, and shuts his eyes. "Help me with my underwear," He mumbles.

There's silence, and he gets the feeling Derek is giving him a look. Probably raising his eyebrows. "You just came," He says, like that's going to stop him. "You're practically asleep,"

Jackson smirks. "So do horrible, degrading things to my naked unconscious body," He says. He knows he'll have his energy back in a moment—it'll take a lot more than coming  _once_ to tire him out, especially after three weeks of nothing. But he can't say he doesn't enjoy the thought.

"How about we wait a few minutes," Derek says, sliding down Jackson's underwear as per his request.

"And then I'll bend you over that dresser in the corner and fuck you until you can't remember what a dick you are."

Jackson smiles. "Perfect,"

* * *

Jackson chest rises and falls with exhausted satisfaction, and he breathes in deeply and fills his lungs with the musty, slightly smokey smell of Derek's house. It's probably worrisome that it's begining to smell comforting to him, but at the moment he doesn't care.

He's sore all over, and covered in small scrapes, dust and grime. The dresser that had been in the corner of Derek's room had collapsed under their weight, and they'd wound up doing it on the floor, surrounded by the rubble. They'd mostly stuck to the bed after that.

It's not enough, not yet—Jackson knows he'll need more in a few minutes—but at least for the moment, he feels calm.

Jackson feels an arm over his shoulders, and he wrinkles his nose and shrugs Derek off. Why couldn't he be left alone and allowed to enjoy his few moments of peace? Did Derek not get his fill of touching him while they were fucking? "Don't do that," Jackson mutters, squirming slightly.

Derek sighs. "Is this going to be a regularly occurring thing?" He asks.

Jackson feels his shoulders stiffen, and he glances at Derek out of the corner of his eye. Derek's eyebrows are raised questioningly, and Jackson didn't think he'd heard any sneer is his tone. Deciding that Derek doesn't appear to be ridiculing him, Jackson lets himself relax again. "If you don't mind," He says stiffly, looking back up at the ceiling. There's no way he can go through those last few weeks of hell again. Fuck that.

"I don't,"

Jackson nods, keeping his face hard so Derek won't know how relieved he is to hear that. "Then yeah," He says. "It will be."

* * *

**  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The look in his eyes has just a hint of a smile in it."
> 
> Derek is a master of smizing. Tyra Banks would be proud.


	4. Walls

It's all Jackson can do to not quit the Lacrosse team. Or drop out of school, since those are the two things that seem to needlessly take up most of his time. Sometimes it's hard to remember why he bothers with them at all. He's knows there's a point to going to school, theoretically, but the more time he spends on the lacrosse field the harder it is to care about lacrosse. He would quit, if not for two things; Derek and Scott. If Jackson quit the team, McCall would get to be Captain all by himself. It would be like he'd won, and there was no way Jackson was going to let that happen.

Not to mention it would be suspicious, Derek says, if he suddenly dropped the one thing that his life had previously revolved around. People would ask questions, get involved. Neither of them wants that. Jackson has to deal with enough questions as it is. And not just from McCall now.

So painful as it is, Jackson sticks with Lacrosse. Half the time he can't remember why, but then, half the time he can't remember why he bothers with  _anything_ that isn't Derek. Derek fucking him raw for hours on end, until he's so sore and tired he's begging "Derek stop, please I can't anymore let me rest—"

They'd had to have a conversation about that, actually. A little less than a week into... whatever you'd call what they were doing. Generally Jackson tried to  _avoid_ things like conversation, but this had been important. Derek had kept doing this annoying thing where when Jackson said things like "no more" or "stop," he'd listen.

He just couldn't have that. For Jackson "stop" really just means "fuck me harder." For Jackson, most things he says to Derek really just mean "fuck me harder."

So they'd had a conversation, and Jackson had explained that just because he said "stop" didn't mean that Derek should actually stop. This led Derek to once again telling Jackson that there was something wrong with him, but after a bit of back and forth he agreed that they should have some sort of "safety" word. Something that Jackson could say when he really  _did_ want Derek to stop.

Jackson's suggestion was "uncle," but Derek turned that down. He didn't give Jackson a reason, he just said no. When Jackson pressed it, Derek's eyes did that thing where they glowed blue and his fangs came out a little, so he let it go.

Jackson didn't understand Derek's suggestion, "Nordic Blue Monkshood," but he turned it down anyways because it seemed like a mouthful. And he got strange shivers down the back of his neck when Derek said it.

In the end, what they went with was probably the stupidest thing either of them could think of, and the only one they could agree on. Their safety word was "safety word." Simple, easy to remember, and not likely to come up accidentally.

Most days, Jackson heads over to Derek's house the moment lacrosse is over. Sometimes when he gets there, Derek is on the porch waiting for him. Other times he makes Jackson go find him inside the house. Jackson isn't sure if he loves that, or hates it with a fiery passion.

It's a fine line with him.

Similarly, he's not sure that Derek does it because he thinks Jackson wants him to, or he does it because he thinks it drives Jackson nuts.

It's really annoying, but the more time they spend fucking, the more it seems like Derek is figuring him out. Most of the time that drives Jackson up the wall, but it's not exactly without its perks, either. Sure it means Derek is figuring out all the most effective ways to taunt and mock him, but it also means he knows all the  _right_ ways to drive him crazy.

Derek's figured out every kink and turn on, knows all the places to kiss and lick and how to do just the right things to turn Jackson into a sweating, quivering mess. He knows how to break down every wall and barrier Jackson's guarded himself with, and get right down into all the insecurities and fears he keeps bottled up inside. It's horrible and it's wonderful all at the same time.

Still, the more Jackson feels Derek figure him out, the more it becomes clear that he hasn't got a clue about Derek. He knows how to taunt and tease him, sure, but that's a gift he has with everyone. And with Derek, he only ever manages to scratch the surface.

Sometimes Jackson finds himself getting glimpses of what's underneath, but it's never enough. There are days when Derek will be rougher with him, holding back so much less than usual. Those are the days Jackson notices things like tears in his clothes or fresh bullet holes in the already desecrated walls of his home. But the more it looks like  _those_  walls are about to come down, the more Derek's just go up.

Jackson can't help but feel frustrated. Why should Derek get to keep so much in, when he's constantly turned out for him to see? Why should  _he_ be the only vulnerable one?

It's like the cuddling thing (Derek calls it "spooning"; Jackson calls it a violation). Every time Jackson passes out at Derek's place, in his bed (and he  _always_ wakes up in his bed, no matter where he fell asleep) if Derek's sleeping next to him, it's guaranteed he's waking up in his arms.

According to Derek, it isn't something he does on purpose.

It's not something they talk about, but it's still something that happens. Jackson's pretty sure that Derek doesn't understand it anymore than he does.

* * *

Derek isn't waiting on the porch when Jackson arrives at his house, but the moment he opens the front door a hand darts out and pulls him inside.

"You're late," Derek all but growls, shoving Jackson against a wall so hard that it shakes, and dust and ash rains down on them. Derek's not wearing a shirt, and the dust sticks to his sweaty skin where it falls on him. He doesn't notice. "And it took you forever to get from your car to the door—" He mouths at Jackson's neck as he speaks, and his hands roam over Jackson's body. "Has anyone ever told you that you walk  _so slowly?_ "

"Sorry," Jackson mutters, not feeling very sorry at all. Derek's patience is a constant source of Jackson's misery, so it's hard to feel anything but exultant whenever it runs out. They won't have to suffer their usual games today. He won't have to deal the taunting and teasing, Derek stringing him along and holding out until Jackson's a screaming mess, hurling insults and spite at Derek, trying to rile him up and goad him into angry sex. "Not all of us can be werewolves,"

Derek doesn't reply, but Jackson feels his hands still. "You smell different," He says, looking at Jackson suspiciously. Jackson raises an eyebrow. "Like someone else." He says it like an accusation, like Jackson's purposefully gone out of his way to do something to upset him.

Jackson presses his mouth against Derek's in response. "I could tell you, but it's a long story," He says, pausing to suck Derek's lower lip into his mouth, eliciting a grunt that's almost bordering on a moan. He lets his fingers drift over Derek's chest, down to the buttons on his jeans. "It's up to you whether or not you  _really_ wanna hear it right now," He pops the button open and begins to reach inside, but Derek grabs his wrist.

"Upstairs," Derek says. "Now," He lets go, and Jackson runs his hand up Derek's chest one more time before side-stepping him and making his way to the staircase.

Jackson pulls off his jacket and shirt as he goes up, and chucks them on the floor of Derek's room when he gets there. Derek doesn't follow him up, but then Jackson hears a loud _thud,_ and suddenly Derek's there in the doorway. He must have just leapt over the bannister or something. Jackson narrows his eyes. "Show off," He mutters, undoing the buttons of his own jeans.

Derek smirks and then moves behind Jackson and grabs him by the back of neck. He kisses along the curve of his shoulder for a moment, and then gives a harsh  _shove_ and thrusts Jackson against the wall. His hands move over Jacksons hips and he pushes the jeans down his body. "Jackson," He mumbles, as Jackson steps out of his pants and kicks them to the side. Derek's hands slide up and down his sides and Jackson braces his hands against the wall. He shudders as Derek kisses the back of his neck again, moaning at the feeling of Derek's tongue stirring along his skin. Over the marks there, the scars that Jackson's finally resigned himself to having for the rest of his life.

"Jackson," Derek repeats, his voice thick and low. "Who do you smell like?"

Jackson shouldn't be as surprised as he is at the question. Of  _course_ Derek won't let it go. No, that would be too easy. Derek hates easy, except when it comes in the form of Jackson. And even then, most of the time he seems to only be mildly tolerable of it.

Jackson groans, and hangs his head so Derek won't mistake it for the good kind of groan. He doesn't bother asking if he's serious. Derek is always painfully serious. "Is now really the time for this?"

"Yes," Derek says. "I'll be too distracted after, and you'll be too tired." Jackson feels Derek's hand slip down and inside the front of his underwear, and his shoulder give an involuntarily jerk. "Besides, after might not be for hours."

"Kind of getting mixed signals here," Jackson mutters, biting back another moan as Derek palms him roughly.

"You talk, I'll do this," Derek tightens his grip around him, and the moan breaks out from between Jackson's lips. "Who and why, Jackson," He breathes. "Tell me,"

"Jealous?" Jackson smirks a little. He doesn't think for one second that Derek really is, but taunting him will never lose its appeal. He knows that the closest Derek could be to jealous is something like "territorial."

Derek's lips press against the back of his ear. "Curious," He says.

Jackson sighs. "It's  _Armani,_ " He says. "My friend Danny, his cologne."

"Interesting," Derek says, after a pause. He puts his hands on Jackson's hips and flips him around, so now his back is pressed against the wall. Derek's face is neutral, but then Jackson hears a snapping sound that he recognizes as Derek's claws coming out, and for a moment his heart jumps up into his throat. Derek swipes his claws and Jackson hears the sound of ripping fabric, and his boxers fall away, shredded. Derek starts kissing his neck once more, and takes Jackson back in his hand. The claws have thankfully been retracted.

Derek's palm is rough and dry, but Jackson loves the feel of it. After the bullshit he'd gone through today, this was just what he needed. He leans his head back against the wall. "Danny and I didn't  _fuck_ , if that's what your thinking," Jackson mumbles. Derek doesn't bother to deny it. Of course that was what he assumed. "He assaulted me after practice, that's why I smell like him."

Derek takes his hand away and looks at him, and Jackson immediately regrets saying anything. "Why would he assault you?"

"I, I don't know—" Jackson says, distressed at the sudden lack of Derek jerking him off. Derek gives him a look. "He's  _worried_ about me, okay?" Jackson glowers up at Derek. "He hardly sees me anymore, I avoid him, I've got bruises all over my body, he's noticed me  _walking_ funny." Jackson rolls his eyes. "Can we fuck now?" He asks, thrusting his hips against Derek's.

"Walking funny...?"Derek repeats. Jackson gives another frustrated groan, breathing out through his nose. Derek's such an ass, to do this to him now. He wants Derek to put his hands back on him. He wants to get off, and to get Derek off. He doesn't want to talk about fucking Danny. "What does that mean?"

"What do you  _think_  it means?" Jackson snaps. "Danny's an expert on how someone walks after they've had a big fat cock up my their ass the night before. Can we fuck  _now?_ " He demands.

The corners of Derek's mouth curve up in a smarmy smirk. "Big fat cock, huh?" He asks. Jackson cringes. "Thanks Jackson, that's practically sweet of you,"

"Oh,  _fuck you—_ " Jackson breaks off as Derek shoves him back against the wall and thrusts his mouth against's Jackson's. Then he moves down, sucking at the skin on Jackson's collar bone and down further until he's on his knees kissing along Jackson's navel.

"Not yet," Derek says, his lips still close enough to brush against Jackson's skin. "I'll fuck you after you come. You last longer that way,"

Jackson's shoulders shake as Derek takes him in his mouth. All of him. Derek doesn't bother with teasing him or going slow, he just gets right down to and sucks _. Hard._

Jackson moans, and writhes against the dirty wall. He can feel plaster and paint chipping off on his back, but he doesn't care.

He runs his fingers through his hair, resisting the urge the grab Derek's. His chest is heaving as Derek tongue slides along him, over the sensitive head of his dick. It's feels good, so good, but he still wants more and he has no shame to stop him for begging for it. Pleading pathetically with Derek for all the usual "more, harder, faster."

Instead of complying, Derek pulls his mouth away and wraps his hand around Jackson. Jackson pants, and looks questioningly at Derek, but Derek just smirks, and starts pumping his fist up and down.

Even on his knees, Derek is in control in a way that Jackson never will be. Even with Jackson's dick down his throat, Derek still owns him. And he knows it. They both do.

Jackson gives in, and shoves his fingers into Derek's hair as he comes. His knees are shaking, and if he doesn't hold onto something he's going to fall over. Especially when he realizes that he came all over Derek's chest.

"Thanks for that," Derek mutters, wiping a hand over his chest. Before Jackson can formulate some sort of reply, Derek grabs his wrist and pulls him down, then pushes him back on the floor.

Afterwards—and Derek was right, it is hours later—Jackson wakes up in Derek's bed. He's pretty sure he'd passed out on the cold floor, covered in cum, but now he's dry and tucked under Derek's worn sheets. By now this has happened so many times that Jackson doesn't question it anymore.

Derek's in bed next to him, but he's awake and sitting up. He's put his pants back on, Jackson notes with distaste, and is reading something inside a beige file folder.

"What's that?"

Derek doesn't look up. "It's a file folder,"

Jackson rolls his eyes. "Yeah but what's  _in_ it?"

"Paper,"

"What's  _written_ on the paper?" Jackson speaks the words through gritted teeth.

Derek finally turns and looks at him, his eyes narrowed dangerously. "Words," Derek snaps. Jackson just glares at him, and Derek closes the file folder and rolls his eyes. Jackson watches as Derek gets off the bed and tosses the folder in a box sitting on the new dresser he'd brought in (new as in new to Derek's room, not newly bought).

"What's that?" Jackson asks, eyeing the box. He's pretty sure it was there when he came in, but when he's close to getting laid it doesn't really seem important to be observant of his environment.

Derek's back stiffens. "None of your business," He says in a low voice. There's a very distinct edge to his voice, one that Jackson recognizes as being a sign that he should drop whatever he's bugging him about. Usually, he would.

"What's the big secret? Is it some magical werewolf voodoo that's too powerful for my weak human eyes? Is it your box full of dildos? I wouldn't mind seeing that—"

"It's just some stuff from my family, alright?" Derek finally snaps. "Things I've found around the house that survived the fire. Now would you  _shut up?_ "

Jackson raises his eyebrows. Derek  _never_ talks about his family. "What kind of stuff?" He asks. "Can I see?"

" _No,"_

"Why not? It's just a box full of junk."

Derek's on him in a flash, eyes burning blue and one hand closed on Jackson's throat. " _It's not junk,_ " He growls. Jackson just glares at him, his lip curled in loathing. A moment passes and Derek takes his hand back. "Get up, get dressed, go home."

Instead of listening, Jackson shoves his mouth against Derek's and kisses him. Because this what they do, after all. They scream and shout at each other until they're both burning up with anger, and then fuck for hours.

Derek pulls back and shakes his head. "Not this time, Jackson," He says, backing away.

Jackson's chest tightens with the familiar feelings of resentment and hate. He gets off the bed and pulls his clothes on as quickly as possible, his jaw clenched tightly as he tries to keep calm. He doesn't even know who's he angrier with, himself for fucking things up or Derek for being an oversensitive nut-job. Himself, probably. He doesn't know what his problem is, why he needs to be such an asshole all the time.

Once he has his stuff together he storms off down the stairs and wrenches open the front door. From somewhere inside the house, Jackson hears Derek shout "Don't come back,"

Jackson pauses for a moment, struggling with the lump in his throat. Then he grits his teeth, and walks out to his porsche.


	5. Happy Birthday

It's nine am and Jackson's already drunk. Drunk and stumbling up the steps to Derek's house. In his inebriated state, going up stairs seems a lot more complicated than it usually would. His foot catches on a loose board, and Jackson has just enough time to put one hand out to break the fall. His other he uses to clutch his bottle of Jack Daniels securely against his chest as his body hits the steps. The one arm doesn't do him much good, and he lands with his face scraping against the coarse wood of Derek's porch.

Jackson's head spins and he blinks rapidly. His cheek is stinging, and he thinks he might have cut it, but the bottle of Jack survived so that's all that matters.

When his vision comes back into focus, Jackson finds himself staring at a pair of dirty feet where a moment ago there had only been burnt wood.

He cranes his neck up, squinting as the sun gets in his eyes. Derek glares down at him, arms folded over his chest. "What are you doing here?" Jackson blinks a few more times. "Don't you have to be in school?"

Jackson rolls his eyes, clutching his bottle of Jack. "Fuck you," He mutters, turning over and reclining back against the stairs. "Fuck school," He takes a swig of Jack and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. His tilts his head back to look at Derek. "Fuck me,"

Jackson raises his eyebrows at Derek and spreads his legs, as though waiting for Derek to obey. When he doesn't, Jackson raises the whiskey up to his mouth again. Before he can take a drink, Derek grabs him and hauls him up to his feet, yanking the bottle away so fast Jackson's head starts to spin again.

"I thought I told you not to come back here," Derek says.

Jackson shrugs. "Decided to ignore you," He says. Derek doesn't need to know how just remembering makes his stomach twist. Or how he hadn't actually  _planned_ to come here, it had just sort of happened. His feet had just sent him in Derek's direction, and Jackson hadn't bothered to fight it. And why should he? He's tortured himself enough this week, wallowing in a sick mixture of self pity and hate. Drinking until he puked or spending hours in the locker room pumping weights until the burn in his muscles brought tears to his eyes. Trying not to hear Derek's voice echoing in his head, telling him  _don't come back._

Besides, today is different, and now he's too drunk to care about anything anyways.

Derek narrows his eyes at him. "Jackson,  _what_   _are you doing here?_ " He demands.

"What d'you  _think_ I'm doing here?" Jackson asks. He takes a step towards Derek and tries to smirk up at him, but he can feel it waiver on his face. "I want to fuck you... I want you to fuck me," He tries to kiss Derek, but Derek just shoves him back.

Derek scowls at him. "It's nine in the morning,"

"So?"

"You're drunk,"

Jackson grins at him. "Didn't stop you the first time, did it?"

Derek just shakes his head, giving Jackson a disgusted look. "This is pathetic, Jackson, even for you."

" _No,_ " Jackson says, still grinning drunkenly. "This is  _exactly_ my level of pathetic. You know that better than anyone." The smile on Jackson's face turns bitter. "I'm the  _most_ pathetic. Why do you think I'm such a good  _fuck?_ "

Derek rolls his eyes, and turns to walk away just like he always does. Jackson lurches forward and grabs Derek's arm. "Hey, can't do that today," He says. Derek jerks his arm back, glaring. "It's my birthday, so you can't do that."

Derek stops, and looks at Jackson with a furrowed brow. "Your birthday?" He asks. "Is  _that_ why you've reverted back into this drunken cockslut mode?"

"It's also the day my parents died," Jackson says, ignoring Derek's comment. "My real parents. I was born, they were dead." He swallows, and gives Derek a shaky look. "Which means you have to be very careful and full of bullshit pity like everyone else."

There's silence as Jackson's words hang in the air. Derek's eyebrows unfurrow, and Jackson thinks he sees some of the disgust leave his eyes. He looks Jackson over for a moment, takes a deep swig from his bottle of Jack, then hands him the bottle back.

"Come on," He says, turning towards the house. Jackson looks down at the bottle for a moment, and then wordlessly follows Derek inside.

* * *

Derek takes Jackson up to his bedroom, but once they're up there Derek still won't let Jackson kiss him. Jackson sneers at him and calls him some names, but Derek just rolls his eyes and pushes Jackson down on the bed. "Relax," He commands.

Jackson glares at him, but leans back against the metal bars of Derek's headboard anyways. Only because he's kind of tired though. Not because Derek told him too.

Derek goes back out of the room, leaving Jackson alone with his bottle of Jack Daniels. He nurses it a little, just to have something to do. His eyelids feel heavy, so he lets them close. Only until Derek comes back. Then he'll wake back up, and continue pleading with Derek for sex. Or even just a kiss. Anything.

Jackson's chin drops down against his chest, and he blacks out.

When he wakes up again, Derek's back, sitting on the edge of the bed and pressing some sort of wet cloth against Jackson's cheek. Instinctively Jackson tries to shove him away, because whatever is on the cloth is making the cut in his cheek burn like hell. Derek just pushes Jackson's arms down, and continues with what he's doing. "Hold still," He mutters, as Jackson tries to turn his face to get away from the burning. "Do you  _want_ to get an infection?"

Jackson eyes him suspiciously. "What are you doing?"

"What does it  _look_ like?" Derek asks, holding up the cloth for Jackson to see. It's covered in splotches of blood, and Jackson can smell antiseptic wafting from it. "Now if you could stop being a baby for maybe three seconds..."

Derek shakes his head as he continues cleaning up Jackson's cut. He makes a sort of frusterated sigh. "You need to get a new act," He mutters. Jackson raises an eyebrow. "Showing up at my house drunk, bleeding, begging for sex. It's old, Jackson."

Jackson casts his eyes down, but says nothing. He realizes that Derek's right, this is just like the first time he'd come to him. Fucking deja vu.

Jackson keeps quiet as Derek patches him up. He tries to keep still like he was told, but the room seems to spin around him. There's a dazzling pain in his head and he feels sick to his stomach. It's hard to tell if it's the alcohol that's made him sick, of if he's just sick of himself.

Derek fixes another piece of cloth against the cut, and then sticks it down with a piece of white tape. Jackson continues to look down at his hands, and as he does it occurs to him that he's no longer holding his Jack Daniels. "Hey, where's—"

"Downstairs, you can have it back later," Derek says, picking something up from the floor beside his bed. "This is better for you." He holds up a dark green mug and a plate with two pieces of toast on it, and offers them to Jackson.

Jackson just stares at Derek for a moment, and then his eyes narrow. "If this is your attempt at pity, you can go fuck yourself, alright?" He snaps. "I don't need it, and I don't want it."

Derek rolls his eyes, and shoves the mug and plate at him. "It's not  _pity,_ Jackson. Now stop wasting my time and take it." Derek glares at him, and Jackson glares back. A few second drag by, and Jackson takes the mug and plate.

"What the hell is this stuff? Jackson wrinkles his nose. Whatever is in the mug is dark and foul smelling, and the toast is covered in some kind of blackish gunk. "Are you trying to kill me?"

Derek smiles at him. "Believe me Jackson, if I was going to kill you I would have done it a long time ago." Jackson stares at him, not entirely sure how to take that. "It's five leaf ginseng tea. You need to hydrate."

"And what about  _this?_ " He asks, pointing to the black toast goo. "Some kind of super special werewolf sludge?"

"It's blackberry jam."

Jackson blinks a few times. "Oh."

"Yeah,"

Jackson pauses. "I'm still not eating it," He says.

Derek's eyes narrow, and flash blue for a split second. "You'll eat it," He says. "Or I'll feed it to you."

Somehow Derek manages to make that sound more menacing than Jackson would have thought possible. He glares at Derek, and puts the plate down on the bed. Fine, he'll probably end up eating it, but he's not going to do it right away. He's going to try the nasty tea first, instead.

Jackson brings the mug to his mouth, but pulls it back almost immediately and looks at it. "There's a chip in this," He says, holding the mug up for Derek to see. The cups dark green rim has a large triangular piece of ceramic missing from it.

Derek just raises his eyebrows, like he doesn't see what the problem is. Of course, Jackson realizes, considering the place Derek chooses to live in, it's likely that something like a broken cup doesn't even register for him. Maybe he thinks cups are all supposed to have pieces missing. Maybe that's just the way Derek thinks things are, burnt or chipped or broken in some way.

Jackson decides not to press the issue, and drinks the tea without another word, turning the mug around to drink from the non-chipped side. He wrinkles his nose as soon as the hot liquid hits his tongue, and quickly shoves the mug back at Derek. "No," He says, shaking his head.

Derek pushes his hand back. "Yes," He says.

Jackson seethes for a moment, and then takes another sip. "God, that's disgusting," He chokes. "It tastes like mud and it's too fucking hot,"

Derek rolls his eyes and gets off the bed. "So  _blow_ on it," He says, walking over to his dresser. "I know you know how to do that."

"That won't get rid of the mud taste..." Jackson mutters, eyeing Derek out of the corner of his eye. The same box from the week before is still sitting on the dresser, the box full of his dead families possessions. Jackson's stomach twists when he spots it.

_Just a box full of junk._

_Get up, get dressed, go home._

_Don't come back._

Jackson watches Derek turn through a few pages of the same file folder he'd had then too. He thinks about a apologizing. A better person than him would definitely apologize for saying something like that. A decent person. Derek closes his file and turns back around, and Jackson looks away. He blows on his drink hoping Derek hadn't seen him watching.

Jackson has never been a decent person.

"You should eat that," Derek says, referring to the toast. "It'll help with the taste of the tea."

"I'll eat it when I feel like it," Jackson says.

Derek just rolls his eyes, and walks out of the room without another word. Jackson stares after him for a moment, then cautiously glances at the toast. There's no way it could be worse than that disgusting tea, so he picks it up and takes a bite.

Compared to the tea, it's heaven. The bread's cold, and slightly stale tasting, but the jam is sweet and delicious. Jackson's never had blackberry jam before, but now that he's tasted some it's safe to that it's probably the greatest jam he's ever had.

Jackson finishes most of the toast, and about half the cup of tea. Despite it's rank taste, it does seem to help the ache in his head a bit. It goes from an agonizing pain to a dull ache, and the sickness in his stomach seems to mostly fade away as well.

He lays back on Derek's creaky bed, and rests his head on a lumpy pillow. He's tired again, and he lets his eyes close. As Jackson drifts back to sleep, he reminds himself to say something insulting to Derek when he comes back.

* * *

It's dark when Jackson wakes up, and for a moment Jackson's heart jumps into his throat as he tries to figure out how long he's been asleep for. It gets dark early in Beacon Hills, and it doesn't feel too late, but he's not sure, and remembering to put his watch on this morning hadn't been a thing that he'd done.

There's the sound of a page turning next to him, and Jackson looks over, squinting through the dark to see that Derek is by his side again, reading some dusty old book. He doesn't look up, or acknowledge the fact that Jackson's woken up in anyway.

Suddenly some of the nausea from before comes back to him.

Today Jackson had come to Derek thinking—barely—that he could just fuck away the trouble. He'd been ready to beg for hours, been ready to do anything to get Derek to fuck him again. He'd been full of hate and pain and he'd wanted Derek to take that and turn it back around on him. He'd wanted to be pulled apart and pushed back together by Derek's hands, strung out and along until he couldn't remember what his name was, let alone how he hated it. His name, his face, his life. Derek was supposed to fuck it all into oblivion like he always had, supposed to make Jackson his so he didn't have to be his own anymore.

He was supposed to degrade and destroy him... instead he'd made him toast.

Derek hadn't even wanted him here—had explicitly told him to never come back here—but he'd been so pathetic he'd let him in anyways. Instead of fucking him, he'd let Jackson sleep in his bed for hours, and given him disgusting healthy tea and toast.

Jackson swallows. Just how much does he owes Derek now? He glances at Derek out of the corner of his eye. He's adjusted to the dark enough to see him fairly clearly now. Derek's still reading, paying no attention to the mess next to him.

Jackson can't think of anything Derek could want from him. For Jackson to leave, and not bother him anymore, maybe. Besides a good lay, what did Jackson even have to offer him, anyways?

Now that he's beginning to sober up, Jackson realizes that coming here today had been a stupid, drunken mistake. Derek doesn't want anything to do with him anymore. He wants to be left alone. At least, he does by Jackson.

Jackson's head spins a little as he tries to sit up. "Derek—"

"Forget it," Derek says. He turns another page, and doesn't look up from his book.

Jackson furrows his brow. "But I—"

"Forget it," He repeats. Jackson sees his shoulders tense a little.

Jackson stares at him, frustrated and confused. Forget  _what?_ Had they been having some kind of conversation while Jackson was asleep? What had they'd talked about before that? "I thought you wanted me to leave," He says. It sounds more accusatory than he'd meant it to. "I thought you didn't want me here anymore,"

"I said," Derek slams his book shut, and gives Jackson a furious look. " _Forget it._ "

Jackson stares at him some more. His instinct is to sneer and snap at him, hurl insults for no real reason. But he doesn't. Maybe it's the oncoming hang-over, or temporary insanity brought on by the taste of blackberry jam that's still in his mouth. Instead Jackson lies back down, looks up at the black ceiling and says "Thanks,"

Beside him on the bed, Derek just shrugs, and goes back to his book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically Jackson was born the day after his parents died, but personally I think that makes no sense. His parents were DOA at the hospital at like 9:30 PM, and then what the doctors took like 2 and a half hours to get him out of his mothers stomach?
> 
> Also his birthday is in June, and the story is taking place... not in June, but whatever. My story my rules.


	6. Party

One week after his birthday, Jackson's parents go out of town for the weekend, so he throws a party. It isn't that he wants to, really, it's more that he feels like he should, since he has the opportunity. Since it's so close to the date, he knows he could have called it a birthday party, but he wants that even less, even if it meant getting presents. Jackson hasn't actually celebrated his birthday since he was six years old, and this year doesn't feel like the time to start. The only presents he ever does get are from his parents, Lydia and Danny, but they all know better than to expect thank you cards in the mail. Or thank you's at all.

He tries to keep the party small, only inviting select people, mostly from the lacrosse and swim team. But word gets out anyways and it doesn't take very long before his house is filled with people, half he knows from school and the other half he doesn't think he's ever met in his life. He would be mad, but part of him expected this. This is what always happens when someone popular throws a party. He used to enjoy that.

Now it doesn't really matter. There's only one person he has any interest in seeing right now, and he's not here. There was no way Jackson could have invited him. Even if he  _hadn't_ been wanted for murder, it still would have been... odd.

Jackson will just have to get through the night without him. He could do that.

It's just one night.

* * *

Someone is playing some sort of awful techno music and swarms of strangers are dancing. Jackson grabs a beer and starts chugging. After a few more of those, none of it will matter, and that's what he's after.

At least he won't have to worry about running into McCall or Stilinski tonight. Allison, one of the few people he'd actually invited, had told him she wouldn't be able to make it, and if she wasn't here than Scott wouldn't be either. Stiles, he knew, would be wherever Scott was.

Still, there's no lack of people to bother him. Every five minutes there's someone else coming up to him and trying to strike up a conversation about something—their latest lacrosse victory, that assignment they had last week in chem, who's he's taking the spring formal. Jackson can't even pretend to care. He lets each of them prattle on for a few minutes, and then tells them he has to go. He doesn't bother giving an excuse.

It's barely two hours into the party when Jackson starts wondering if anyone would notice, if he just left. Sure, it's  _his_ party, but there are so many people... he's almost sure he could sneak out, just for an hour or two. That's all it would take, really. Get in his Porsche, speed across town to the Hale house... Have Derek fuck his senses so thoroughly out of him that having to suffer through the rest of the party wouldn't matter.

It was doable... no one would miss him. It's not like anyone was here to see  _him._

"Hey, Jackson,"

Jackson jumps, startled. Danny holds up his hands innocently. "Sorry, I... didn't mean to scare you," He says. He's holding two beers in his hands, and wearing a sheepish expression on his face. "I was hoping we could talk..." He offers Jackson one of the beers.

Jackson glances at the beer for a moment, then back at Danny. They've haven't really spoken since Danny's "assault" on him. Well, Jackson hasn't been speaking to Danny since then, anyways. This isn't the first attempt Danny's made, to try and make amends. Maybe because of the alcohol, or because with all the other bullshit in his life Jackson just can't bring himself to keep up some pathetic grudge. Whatever it was, this time Jackson decides to let him.

"Alright," Jackson says, taking the beer from his friend. "Let's talk,"

Danny nods, and looks down at the beer in his hand, tapping his thumb against the cups rim. "I wanted you to know that I'm sorry for you trying to force you to talk me," He says. "I just... I was just worried—"

"I've told you before, don't worry about me," Jackson interrupts. "I can take care of myself,"

Danny laughs a little, and Jackson glares at him, rethinking his decision to forgive. "Sorry, it's just," Danny says, "I remember the first time you told me that. We were like 10 or something, and I was trying to talk you out of walking across the top of the monkey bars." Danny smiles. "You said 'I don't need you to tell me what to do, Danny, I can take care of myself.' And you said it in the same way, too. So serious. Amazing elocution though, for a 10 year old."

Jackson scowls. "I'm not sure if this is what you consider an 'apology,' but I have to tell you that it's really not working."

The smile slips off Danny's face, and he gives Jackson a serious look. "You remember what happened, that day?" He asks.

Jackson has to think for a moment. "I fell," He says. "The school nurse thought I broke my wrist, but it was just a sprain."

Danny nods. "I'm always going to worry about you, Jackson," He says.

The words hang there for a moment, and Jackson looks away uncomfortably. "If the next words out of your mouth are 'I'll always be there to catch you when you fall,' I swear I will never talk to you, ever again."

Jackson glances up at Danny, who gives him a wry smile. A minute passes, and neither of them say anything. Jackson sips his beer.

"So... are we cool now?" Danny asks.

Jackson shrugs. "Yeah, I guess," He says. The relief he feels once the words are out of his mouth takes Jackson by surprise. It was as though he hadn't even realized how much he'd missed Danny until then.

A huge smile spreads across Danny's face, money in Jackson's "you're a fucking terrible person" bank. Danny is one of the few people in his life that he actually gives a shit about. He should treat him better. He should treat everyone better. A decent person would appreciate a friend like Danny.

But of course, Jackson has never been a decent person.

"Just... for the record," Danny says, hesitantly. "If you ever did decide you wanted to talk about... whatever's been going on with you—"

"I  _won't—_ "

" _Hypothetically,"_ Danny says, speaking over Jackson's interruption. "If you did... I'm here. Just for the record."

Jackson rolls his eyes. "Yeah, duh," He mutters.

Danny smiles again, and opens his mouth to say something else, but something across the room seems to distract him. "What is he doing here?" Danny turns away and stares at the floor. "I didn't think you knew him."

Jackson furrows his brow, looking around the room for whoever Danny's talking about. "What? Who?"

" _Miguel,"_ Danny all but hisses. "Stiles' cousin—you could have told me you were inviting him," He says. "I would have... worn a different shirt, or something."

"Danny, what the hell are you—" Jackson breaks off mid sentence, and across the room he locks eyes with a pair of cool hazel-green ones. Confident eyes that stare at Jackson without a hint of discernible emotion in them. Eyes he'd told himself he wouldn't see all night.

Derek.

"Is he looking at us?" Danny asks, glancing up for a second. "Shit, he is," He looks away again. "This shirt isn't that bad, is it?"

Jackson looks at Danny, just for a moment, and when he turns back to where Derek had been standing, he's gone. Jackson hates it when Derek does that. Just appears and disappears into thin air. It doesn't make any sense, either. Werewolves don't move  _that_ fast—not anywhere near fast enough to move without being seen. Not faster than the speed of  _light._

He had the sudden image in his head of Derek frantically bolting out of the room and hiding behind the corner, just so he seemed mysterious.

"Danny, I'll talk to you later, alright?" Jackson says, interrupting Danny's shirt monologue. "I have to go see about something..."

Danny says something in reply that Jackson doesn't quite hear as he walks away. He hopes it was something along the lines of "okay, see you later." More likely it was another question about his shirt, but whatever.

Jackson heads upstairs, where the quiet stillness is a sharp contrast to the bustling noise of the party downstairs.

Derek was here, somewhere. He wouldn't just show up and leave... would he? That didn't make any sense. But then again, how often did Derek make sense to him? Occasionally, he supposed... but more often then not the man was an enigma.

Jackson opens the door to his bedroom, and standing in the middle of it is Derek. He has Jackson's chemistry textbook in his hands, and he's flipping through it like he's been waiting up here for awhile, even though Jackson had seen him downstairs barely a minute ago.

Derek doesn't look up from the textbook when Jackson enters. "So, this is what I missed out on when I dropped out, huh?" Derek says, turning a page. Jackson closes the door behind him, and after a second, locks it. "Suddenly I'm filled with regret." Derek closes the book, puts it down on Jackson's desk, and gives him an expectant look.

"What are you doing here?" Jackson asks, walking over to his desk. He leans back against it and crosses his arms.

One of Derek's eyebrows goes up. "There's a party going on, Jackson," Derek says. "Didn't someone tell you?"

Jackson rolls his eyes, and tries to keep a scowl on his face as Derek steps closer to him. "Yeah I know. But it's invitation only, and I don't remember putting 'psychotic murdering werewolf' on the list."

Derek grins. He's close enough now for Jackson to smell him, and it makes his knees go a little weak. It makes all of him go a little weak. A lot weak. He's always so weak around Derek. "Don't think that doesn't hurt me, Jackson," He says, trailing his fingers up Jackson's chest. "Really, I'm offended."

Jackson knows he's supposed to say something snarky back—and he has about 15 things he  _could—_ but instead he just grabs Derek and kisses him, hard. Their mouths crash together, and Jackson's using so much force his jaw is burning with every kiss. But if it's hurting him so much, then Derek has to be feeling something too. Anything.

Derek reaches for the front of Jackson's jeans, but Jackson pulls back. "Wait, one second," Jackson says. He pulls off his shirt and tosses it aside on the way over to his bed side table. He pulls out the drawer, and then empties its contents on the bed. Amidst the junk—spare change, a lacrosse keychain, whatever—there's condoms, lube and a box of tissues.

"I'm trying to not see this as some sort of representation of your personality," Derek says, standing next to Jackson and looking at the junk. "Sex," He says, pointing to the condoms and the lube. "Money," He points to the change. "Lacrosse." He picks up the keychain, a small lacrosse stick and medallion on a loop. The medallion has the number 37 on it, the number of Jackson's jersey.

Jackson glares at him, and snatches the keychain out of his hand. "Ha ha, very funny," He snaps. Derek shrugs, as if to say that he thought so. "Danny gave me this stupid thing," He says, putting the keychain on his night table. He pushes the lube, condoms and tissues off to the side, and the rest he sweeps into a garbage bin—including the money. Derek raises an eyebrow at him. "It's worthless junk."

Derek rolls his eyes, picks Jackson up and carries him back over to the desk. The chemistry textbook is pushed off the desk as Jackson is pushed onto it. Derek's mouth is at his throat, and Jackson wraps his arms around Derek's neck.

"Mmm, wait," Jackson says again. Derek doesn't stop. He kisses along Jackson's jaw line, working his way to his mouth. Jackson finally pulls his face away, and Derek sighs and looks at him. "Why does Danny think your name is Miguel, and you're Stiles' cousin?"

There's a pause, and then Derek laughs. His chin drops down against his chest, and he laughs. Jackson just stares at him, trying to keep himself from smiling too. "What—come on, tell me," He gives Derek's shoulder a shove, but Derek just shakes his head and kisses him again. "Nn—I'm serious, Derek," Derek ignores him, breaking the kiss long enough to shed his own jacket and shirt. "I'm not gonna... not gonna let this go..." Derek pushes Jackson's legs apart and moves between them. He puts his hand on the back of Jackson's neck as he kisses him.

Jackson lets it go.

Neither of them bothers with their usual routine. There's no teasing and mocking this time, no biting remarks and jabs. They just skip right into it, this dance they've done so many times before. It's all second nature now. Derek's hands, the way they feel on Jackson's body—the taste of his tongue and the smell of skin. But it's all still so good.

The music downstairs is blasting, the party loud enough that there's no fear of anyone downstairs hearing Jackson's ragged moans as Derek thrusts into him, or the few groans that Derek doesn't manage to smother into Jackson's neck.

Jackson's arms wrap around Derek's neck again, trying to pull him in closer even when there's no closer to go. He bites Derek's ear, and makes no attempts to quell the stream of embarrassing things that come from his mouth. "Derek, harder— _harder,_ " He begs, digging his nails into the back of Derek's shoulders. "I—I need more. Make it  _hurt—_ " There's a pressure building inside his chest, a crushing pressure that needed to be released. He presses his mouth against Derek's. They're both breathing hard and the kiss is sloppy, but Derek's mouth is sweet.

Derek shakes his head and grunts the word " _no,_ " but Jackson persists.

"Please, please..." Derek tilts Jackson's chin up, and kisses and bites softly at his throat. It's another  _no,_ but a nicer one. Jackson let's his head drop back down, and grabs Derek by his hair. " _Harder,_ " he repeats, making it a command instead of a request. Derek looks him in the eye, and Jackson's stares back. They rock together on Jackson's desk, Derek pushing into Jackson and Jackson pushing back.

Finally Derek puts his hands on Jackson's hips and holds him steady. He pulls back and then slams himself into Jackson again. Jackson cries out, and bites down on his own fist to stifle it. "Uh, oh god, yes," Jackson moans, dropping his arm over Derek's shoulder. "Just like..." Derek slams into him again, and tears spring into Jackson's eyes.  _"That,"_

Jackson's done after one more hard thrust. He presses his mouth to Derek's shoulder to muffle the almost agonized cry that he makes as he comes. Jackson practically collapses against Derek, with his head lolling against Derek's shoulder, and he clings to him with limp arms.

Derek returns to the slower, softer thrusts he was using before, and finishes a minute after Jackson. A deep, satisfied groan comes from the back of his throat, and he runs his fingers through Jackson's sweat soaked hair, and kisses his temple.

"Wait," Jackson mumbles, as he feels Derek begin to pull out of him. Derek pauses. "Just... stay,"

"I'm not a dog." Derek mutters. He slides back into him, all the same.

Jackson tightens his arms around Derek's neck, getting a better grip as he relaxes against him. His legs are still wrapped over Derek's hips, though not as tightly as when they were fucking. Jackson's out of breath, and he rests against Derek as he tries to catch it. He feels Derek stroke his hair, and he sighs, letting his eyes close. "I wanted to invite you, y'know," He murmurs. He breaths in the smell of sweat and sex on Derek's skin. It makes him feel drunk. "Even though I couldn't... I wanted to..."

Derek's whole body stiffens. Jackson feels his shoulders lock up, and when he leans back there's a tense look on his face. "Derek...?"

"Scott's here."

"What—"

"Scott is  _here,_ " Derek repeats, louder. He pulls out of Jackson, stumbles backward and looks around the room, as though expecting to find Scott hiding in the corner. But Scott's not in the corner... he's downstairs, apparently.

Jackson's eyes get wide, and he feels sick.

Scott is downstairs.

"Are—are you  _sure?_ " The other guests at the party wouldn't have been able to hear them, but  _Scott_ would. He would have heard everything.

Derek is rushing around the room, cleaning himself off with the tissues on Jackson's bed and haphazardly pulling his clothes back on. "Yes I'm  _sure._ " He pauses just long enough to give Jackson a furious look. Behind the fury, Jackson thinks he might see panic.

"Derek, wait," Jackson takes a step towards him, wishing he would just calm down so they could figure out what they were going to do. Derek shoves Jackson back with one hand.

"I have to go," He says, opening up Jackson's window. He glances back towards Jackson, standing naked in the middle of his room, and then leaps out, into the night.

And just like that, it's over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'm sure you've all heard the news about Colton by now. Devastation is not a strong enough word.
> 
> I'll try to post the next chapter in a more timely manner.


	7. Abandoned

Jackson's house is a mess on Sunday morning. Empty bottles of alcohol are littered everywhere, and the floor is sticky with spilt beer and various other liquids that Jackson's doesn't want to know about.

Four party guests had stayed the night, sleeping on the couches or the floor or each other. Jackson forces them to help him clean up some of the mess before he kicks them out, grumbling and hungover. It isn't  _his_ problem that they'd gotten too drunk to drive, and decided to do the "responsible" thing and stay over. What the hell did he care if they got into accidents? At least they would have been out of his hair.

Jackson spends the rest of the day cleaning up the mess. He's a little hung over himself, and his body os aching and stiff all over. If it wasn't for the mess he had to clean up, he would have considered it worth it. The mess... and Scott.

Jackson thinks about that all day, while he scrubs dried beer off hard wood flooring and fills garbage bag after garbage bag. He thinks about what he's going to say to Scott on Monday. Well, more like what he's going to  _threaten_ Scott with, so the little shit will keep his mouth shut.

He goes over everything in his mind again and again, but he's only able to come up with one thing; Allison. He grimaces just thinking about it. Allison is definitely the least appealing option, but unfortunately it seems like the only one he really has. He can't threaten Scott physically, and the team had already proven that they couldn't be relied on to teach him a lesson. Allison is the only thing Scott has that he could take.

Ka-ching. More money in the asshole bank.

* * *

Monday afternoon he finds Allison sitting alone in the cafeteria, eating an apple and reading an old, dusty book. It looks like the sort of thing he'd find lying around Derek's house. He tries to pretend he doesn't feel anything in the pit of his chest, as Derek comes to mind. It's not easy.

Allison is engrossed in her book, so Jackson clears his throat to get her attention. She looks up, and the shock on her face when she sees him is enough to tell him that Danny isn't the only one who's noticed his absence. The thought is both comforting and annoying.

"Do you, uh, mind if I join you?" Jackson asks, even though he's already sliding in next to her on the bench.

Allison nods a few times, and shuts her book. "Yeah, of course," She says, swallowing the bit of apple in her mouth. She laughs. "I mean no," She corrects. "I don't mind."

Jackson makes himself smile at her. "That's good," He says. "I was worried for a moment there."

She smiles again, and begins fiddling with the ugly necklace she always wears. "So, uh... I kind of feel like I haven't seen you in forever."

Jackson nods, and looks away. "Yeah, I've been kind of busy..." He says, scratching at the back of his head. "I've been, uh... dealing with some stuff..." It isn't a lie, exactly. He  _had_ been dealing with stuff. Regularly fucking an 20-something werewolf with more issues than GQ definitely falls into the realm  _stuff._

Allison's brow furrows, and she leans in a little. "Yeah? Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm—" Jackson breaks off, realizing with a sudden sickening horror that Scott might have already told her. Would she have told Lydia, if she knew? How many others would know? He's going to murder Scott McCall. Immediately, before Derek can murder  _him._

"Jackson, are you alright?" Allison asks. She looks worried. "Your face just turned like... completely white."

"Y-yeah," Jackson stumbles, trying to clear his head. "I just—I'm really not feeling well," He rubs his forehead, feigning illness. "Um, when was the last time you talked to Scott?" Allison's brow furrows in confusion. "It's just—I might go home, and since he's my co-captain I want to let him know I won't be at practice."

"Oh," Allison says. She looks away, and picks up her half eaten apple again. "Um, Scott and I really haven't been seeing much of each other lately." She takes a small bite of the apple, and chews. "I don't really know where he'd be."

Relief floods through Jackson's body, and his pulse slows. They aren't talking, he can't have told her. "That's gr—too bad. I mean, you two always seemed so... happy, together."

Allison shrugs. "Yeah, well..."

"No, I get it. Sometimes things just don't work out." Jackson rubs at the back of his neck again. "Relationships are hard..." Allison nods in agreement, peeling some of the skin off her apple. Jackson slings his leg back over the bench, and begins to stand up. "Well, I should go find McCall," He says. "Then y'know, get out of here..."

"Alright, well... see you later, I guess."

Jackson nods. "Yeah, definitely. We should hang out, sometime." He says. "Catch up."

The smile Allison gives him is a little tense, but he's pretty sure it's because she's thinking about Scott. That's good, he could work with that. Something happened to drive a wedge between them. All Jackson would have to do is widen it.

Jackson heads out of the cafeteria, mentally compiling a list of places he could find Scott. The locker room before practice is the surest bet, but that's not until after school.

Jackson pushes the cafeteria door open, and comes face to face with Scott McCall. Their eyes meet. Jackson's narrow, and Scott's get big. Neither of them says anything.

"Uh... what's going on?" Stiles asks. Jackson had barely noticed him standing there. He looks back and forth between Jackson and Scott. "Seriously, dude—?"

"Scott and I need to talk," Jackson hears himself say. It sounds a lot more confident than he feels. He hates the way Scott is looking at him, like he's some sort of freak. He can see fear in Scott's eyes too, but not the kind of fear Jackson wants to see. The fear is his eyes is much too close to revulsion.

"Uh, no, no we don't," Scott says, shaking his head. Jackson grabs his arms and Scott flinches away.

" _Yes,_ we do, _"_ Jackson seethes. He longs for the days when Scott was a weak little asthmatic, someone Jackson could easily over power. Everything was so much simpler back then. "Or, if you like, I could head back into the cafeteria and continue my conversation with Allison,"

Scott's eyes flash, and for a moment the fear is replaced by anger. " _Allison?_ "

Stiles is watching them with his mouth hanging open, and a look on his face like he missed something. That's good. It means Scott hasn't told him yet, either. Maybe there is a little left over fear in him, after all. Or maybe he's just too disgusted.

Jackson grins. "Yeah, we were having a really nice chat, catching up and everything. I cut it short because I had to talk to you, but if you're busy—"

Scott wrenches his arm away, and gives Jackson a resigned look that's a mix between hurt, and wanting to hurt him. "Fine, we'll talk."

They go find an empty classroom to talk in. Once they're inside, Jackson slams Scott back into a wall. It really says something about how pathetic Scott is, that he lets him. Both of them know Scott could easily over power him, and yet he does nothing. Really, Scott is probably the least deserving person on the planet, to have been given all that extra power. He doesn't even know what to  _do_  with it.

"What did you hear?" Jackson demands, holding Scott by the front of his shirt.

Scott looks away, squinting at the door. "Uh, nothing," He says. His voice is at least three octaves higher than usual. Jackson doesn't need fucking werewolf hearing to know he's lying. "Really—"

Jackson shakes him a little. "Liar. I know you know."

Scott cringes, and slowly turns his head back. He seems to force himself to look at Jackson. "Yeah, I know, okay." He squeezes his eyes shut. "God, you have  _no idea_ how much I wish I didn't."

Jackson drops his hands from Scott's shirt and takes a step back as a wave of nausea hits him. The things Scott must of heard—Jackson moaning, begging. Telling Derek to hurt him.

He's going to be sick.

Jackson turns way from Scott, and puts his hands on a desk to steady himself. "You can't tell anyone, alright?" His voice is shaking, and he knows he's lost all sense of intimidation. Scott doesn't say anything, and Jackson makes himself turn back around to face him. He points his finger at him. "If you say one word—"

"I won't," Scott interrupts. "I won't say anything, or tell anyone, I swear. I mean,  _I_ don't even want to know it. Why would I want anyone else to?"

Jackson gives Scott a searching look. There's a lot of reasons Scott would want to tell people; revenge, to shame Jackson into leaving him alone... just out of pure spite. But it wasn't like he was going to tell Scott that. "Good," Jackson says. "Because if you do—"

"I won't. Really. I kind of just want to pretend it never happened, and forget it."

Jackson nods. "Good," He says again. "Do that."

There's silence for a few moments, and they both just look at each other. Scott gets a hesitant look on his face. "Can I ask you something?"

" _No—"_

"Why?" Scott asks anyways. "I mean, why—why  _Derek?_ Why, and—and how? How did that happen?" Scott looks around a little, and lowers his voice. "I mean... did he force you...?"

"No!" Jackson shouts, giving Scott a disgusted look. "No he didn't  _force_ me. God, you really think Derek would do something like that?"

"I don't know!" Scott says. "I mean,  _no_ I didn't think he would do something like that—but I didn't think either of you would do something like what I heard, either!" Scott pauses, and gives Jackson a look. "Well?"

Jackson sighs. "What do you want me to say?" He asks, sitting back on the desk. "I don't know. It just happened." That's a lie, but there's no way Jackson is going to tell Scott about how he'd dreamed of Derek for months, and obsessed over him and craved him like a drug. Or how he'd begged Derek to fuck him, over and over again. Because he needed him.

"It  _'just happened'?_ " Scott practically yelled. "How does something like that 'just happen'? Things like that don't just happen—" Scott frowns, and then a look of realization appears in his eyes. He looks at Jackson. "Is  _that_ what's been going on with you? When I thought you were having panic attacks, and—" Scott's eyes gets wide. "You  _smelt_ like him! I thought he was harassing you or something—oh, man, you guys have been doing this for months—"

Jackson stands up violently. "Alright, we're done." He says. He didn't need to sit there and listen to this.

Jackson exits the room, and heads straight of the school to the parking lot. Now that he's made sure Scott won't tell, the next thing he has to do is find Derek and tell him it's alright. No one besides Scott will know. Nothing has to change. And it's just  _Scott,_ after all. Who the hell cares what he thinks? Jackson is pretty sure Derek doesn't.

At least... he hopes.

* * *

Derek isn't home. After almost an hour of searching, Jackson is sure of it. He looked in every bedroom—including the ones in the half of the house that was almost completely destroyed by the fire. He's pretty sure he almost died at least three times, stepping on parts of the floor that crumbled under his feet or getting to close to places where the walls and flooring were obliterated. He calls out for Derek all the while, and keeps expecting Derek to appear in a dark corner, jumping out at him and giving him a heart attack.

But Derek doesn't, because he's not there. And he's not there the next day, either. Or the one after that.

Jackson handles it as calmly as possible. On the fourth day, he goes to Derek's house and breaks things. He punches holes in the black walls and screams, sure that where ever Derek is he can hear him. He pushes over the blackened furniture and topples piles of useless junk until the foyer is even more demolished looking than before.

On the fifth day, when Jackson walks out to his Porsche after school, there's a crowd of people around it. They part as Jackson approaches, and Jackson can feel their eyes boring into him.

Jackson barely has a moment to wonder about what the fuck is going on, before he sees. His backpack drops off his shoulder, onto the ground, and he stares. He shouldn't be as surprised as he is, when he sees the damage that's been done to his car. But he is.

His Porsche's tires have been slashed, and the windshield has been smashed in, along with all of the mirrors. There are three long scratches on the hood, and the words "STAY AWAY" have been carved into the metal.

Jackson stares at his destroyed car, at the message being sent to him. It really shouldn't be this surprising. Or painful.

The crowd around him whispers and stares, but Jackson doesn't see or hear them.

" _Oh my god—"_ Jackson hears, a moment before Lydia pushes her way through the crowd. "Jackson, what the hell happened to your car?"

Jackson's retort is instinctual, formulated and spoken with almost no conscious effort. "I don't know Lydia, I guess I ran a red light," He says. He doesn't bother to look at her as he speaks.

Lydia glares at him. "You should tell the police," She says. "Right, Stiles?"

Stiles is standing a little to Lydia's left, looking at the broken passenger side mirror. He practically falls over when she says his name. "Huh?"

"He should tell the police, shouldn't he?" Lydia repeats. "Look how deep those scratches are. And the words." She gestures to the gouges on his hood. "This isn't just  _vandalism,_ this is a threat. This is  _personal._ Someone has very deliberately  _knifed_ Jackson's car."

_Not knifed,_ Jackson thinks.  _Clawed._

Jackson doesn't bother giving Lydia or Stiles an answer. He just picks up his backpack and walks away. He can't deal with this right now, especially not around them. He needs alcohol, and a dark black pit to crawl into.

He can hear shouts as he walks out of the parking lot, Lydia calling his name and telling him it's not her fault if someone murderers him on the walk home. He almost laughs. At this point, that would be a blessing.

* * *

Once Jackson gets home, he calls the mechanic and sends him to the school for his car. Then he breaks into his fathers liquor cabinet, and grabs the first bottle of amber liquid he sees. He drinks in his backyard, staring at black tarp covering pool and trying to remember what his life was like before Derek Hale was in it. He remembers lacrosse seemed really important, but he can't remember why.

Derek can't be serious about this. It's just Scott. Who the hell cares if he knows? Derek will realize that. Realize that it doesn't fucking matter, that he's just over reacting. Any day now.

Jackson takes a long drink from his bottle, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He just has to be patient, that's all.

Everything will be alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'd like to take this time to remind everyone about the dangers of drinking and driving, and mention that if you throw a party and someone gets drunk there and then drives and gets into an accident, you're responsible for them. Or your parents are, if you're a minor.
> 
> These are things you should know, Jackson. Your Dad is an attorney.


	8. No One's Type

At three weeks of silence, Jackson's patience runs out. He's reached the end of his rope, and if he doesn't do something soon he'll wind up making a noose and hanging himself with it.

Derek just can't do this to him, just cut him out of his life like this. Pretend like nothing ever happened, ignore him so completely. He just can't. This is insanity. Pure insanity, and Jackson is desperate to end it.

He knows he's desperate, potentially more desperate than he's ever been, because of where he's standing right now. Nothing beyond complete and total desperation could have ever made him go to the house of Stiles Stilinski for help. Especially help about  _Derek._

But here he is, standing on the front porch and getting ready to knock. So he must be.

Jackson raises his fist, but before he can knock the door is pulled open, and Jackson finds himself about to accidentally punch the Sheriff in the face. Luckily he stops himself in time. Getting arrested is not on his list of things to do today.

Sheriff Stilinski looks surprised to find Jackson standing there. "Oh, uh hello—Jackson, is it?" He asks. Jackson nods, and the Sheriff looks around, as if searching for something. "Are you here to see Stiles?"

"Um, yeah," Jackson says. "It's for school. Chemistry."

The Sheriff furrows his brow. "I thought Danny was Stiles' chemistry partner?"

"Uh, yeah, he is. He's why I'm here, actually," Jackson recovers. "He was supposed to drop something off for a project they're doing, but he's sick so he gave it to me to give to him."

Sheriff Stilinski nods, and seems to accept his answer. "Alright," He says. "Well, Stiles is in his room. You can go on up, if you want. It's the first door on the left."

Jackson smiles, and thanks him, and the Sheriff lets him in, and then leaves and locks the door behind him. Jackson heads up the stairs, and takes a moment to brace himself for dealing with Spazlinski before he goes through the door.

Stiles is on the computer, sitting with one foot up on the desk and chewing on a pen lid. He swivels his desk-chair around when he hears the door open, and then topples to the floor. "Wha—Jackson, what—" Stiles babbles, picking himself back up and looking around like he's trying to pretend he didn't just wipe out. Jackson rolls his eyes. "What're you doing here?"

"I need to talk to Derek," Jackson says, getting right to the point. "And I figured since you and McCall like to play Shaggy and Scooby to his Fred, you'd know where I could find him."

Stiles squints at him. "I really don't see Derek as much of the Fred type," He says. "He's more of the grumpy-bad-guy-in-a-mask than—"

"Not the  _point,_ Stilinski," Jackson snaps. Stiles smiles at him, and Jackson balls his hands up into fists so he doesn't hit him. He looks around Stiles room, and freezes when he sees a beige file folder sitting on his desk. The folder is tattered and there are smudges of something that could be dirt on it. Dirt or ash. A strange shiver runs ups his spine to the base of Jackson's neck. He's seen that folder before. "He was here," He says quietly.

"Huh?"

Jackson lurches forward and slams Stiles back into the wall. He told himself he wasn't going to do that, but he can't stop himself. Derek's been a horrible influence on him, really. "Derek was  _here,_ " Jackson shouts. "Recently. Why? What was he doing here? Did he say anything about what's been going on with him? Do you know where I can find him?"

Stiles is staring at him with that stupid open-mouthed look of his, and Jackson shakes him violently. "Why the hell do you want to see Derek so badly?" He asks.

Jackson breathes in through his nose. "I just... need to talk to him, alright? It's important."

Stiles grins. "Why, are you two a thing now?" He laughs. Jackson says nothing, and the smile slips from Stiles' face. "Wait—you're joking, right?"

"Just tell me where to find him," Jackson says. "Somewhere he goes that I can run into him or something." He doesn't care if Stiles knows, at the this point. He doesn't care if anyone knows. It's all bullshit anyways.

Stiles shakes his head, and Jackson tightens the grip on his shirt. "No, no way. You're not serious, there's no way." Stiles has a disgusted look on his face, but it's different from the way Scott looked at him. Stiles looks disgusted, but something else, too. Disgusted and... jealous? "He wouldn't do that, way," Stiles is saying. "Especially not with  _you—_ "

Jackson presses himself against Stiles and looks him dead in the eye. "Oh, you think so?" He asks. "You'd be surprised, Stiles. There's a  _lot_ Derek would do with me," He grins, and sees anger burn in Stiles' eyes. "A lot he  _has_ done with me." Jackson waits, but for probably the first time in his life, Stiles has nothing to say. "How long have you wanted him for, Stiles?"

Jackson gets the confirmation he's looking for as Stiles diverts his gaze. He squirms uncomfortably in Jackson's grip.

"Tell me where I can find him," Jackson says, his voice quiet, but sharp. He treats it like a dagger and twists it deep into Stiles' gut. "And I'll tell you everything you want to know, about Derek," Jackson puts his mouth close to Stiles' ear. "You have  _no idea_ how good he looks on his knees," He whispers. "How  _incredible_ he is at giving head..."

Stiles starts squirming again, harder than before. He tries to shove Jackson away, but Jackson just slams him back against the wall. Stiles glares at him. "Don't pretend you don't want to hear this, Stilinksi," Jackson says. "It'll give you shower-time masturbation material for a month." Jackson grins, because it's not like he doesn't know the reason Stiles suddenly wanted to wriggle away. It's not like he can't feel how unbelievably hard Stiles is. Jackson is pressed right up against him, of course he knows. "Or, maybe you're sick of that," Jackson says, letting one hand drift down Stiles body, brushing between his legs. "Maybe you want some real human contact for a change—"

It was an invitation, but not one he expected Stiles to take. It was only meant as a tease, really. But one moment Stiles is glaring at him, and the next he's pressing his mouth against Jackson's with desperation that tastes all too familiar. His instinct is to push him away, because it's  _Stiles,_ but he doesn't. Not only does he  _not_ push Stiles away, he kisses him back.

Stiles' mouth is hot and his lips are soft, but his kiss is harder than Jackson would have expected. Stiles pushes Jackson's jacket off his shoulders, and then pulls back and begins fumbling with the buttons of Jackson's shirt. It takes him forever just to get one open, and Jackson rolls his and eyes and pushes Stiles back so he can do it himself.

Stiles leans his head back against the wall and watches Jackson unbutton his shirt. His mouth is hanging open like always, but somehow it doesn't look so stupid now. Now it looks inviting.

Once the buttons have been dealt with, Jackson tosses the shirt aside and presses himself back against Stiles. He bites Stiles' bottom lip, and Stiles makes a noise that's obviously much more pain than pleasure. "Don't do that," Stiles mumbles.

Jackson swallows. "Sorry," He says, as he pulls Stiles' shirt over his head. He'd forgotten, somehow, that Stiles was Stiles, and not Derek. Stiles was human. Fragile. Jackson couldn't be as rough with him. The thought hurt. Not the thought that he couldn't be as rough, but the plain fact that Stiles just wasn't Derek.

It hurt, but Jackson tries to let Stiles' lips smother it. It almost works.

They stumble back onto Stiles' bed together, and Jackson straddles Stiles' hips and pins his wrists above his head. He's seen Stiles shirtless lots of times in the locker room, but he's never really given any thought to how he looked until now. It's not bad. It's not  _Derek,_ but it's not bad. His chest is firm and smooth, with a trail of dark hair running down from his belly button and disappearing under the line of his jeans.

For all his not-Derek-ness, Stiles being Stiles does have it's advantages. It's almost a shock to his system at first, the noises Stiles makes when he touches him. He's so used to Derek, quiet and controlled to a fault. Stiles couldn't be more different. He moans when Jackson kisses his neck, and cries out as he moved down his chest, licking and biting— _lightly—_ at his skin.

"Jackson, oh geez—" Stiles moans, arching his back as Jackson kisses his navel, nuzzling the trail of hair. Jackson can't help but think of how it used to sound when Derek would say his name. Stern, controlling. Like Jackson was something that belonged to him, something that was  _his._

He sits up, and starts unbuttoning his jeans. He needs to get off soon, before the crushing ache in his chest is the only thing he can feel. Jackson gets his jeans open, and shoves his hand inside.

Stiles watches Jackson jerk himself with his eyes wide and his mouth open once more. His lips are red now, and Jackson can't help but think how nice those sweet red lips would look around his dick. He'd bet they'd feel even better.

Jackson closes his eyes and bites down on his lip, pushing those thoughts away. Somehow that felt like it would be crossing a line.

Stiles sits up underneath him, and starts kissing and biting at his neck like Jackson had been doing to him before. He feels Stiles' hand brush his out of the way. Jackson has to bite down harder on his lip to keep in a moan. With his eyes closed, he can almost pretend it's Derek that's touching him, biting at his neck and sliding his hand along him. He'd consider it another deposit in the asshole bank, but part of him is pretty sure Stiles is doing the same thing.

Jackson opens his eyes and shoves Stiles hand away.

"Wh—" Stiles begins, but Jackson cuts him off by pushing him back down against the bed.

"I'm assuming you don't have any lube or condoms or anything," Jackson says as he works open the zipper of Stiles' jeans.

Stiles laughs. "And I would have those things because...?" He asks. Jackson rolls his eyes. "I've got moisturizer and tissue," He points up, and Jackson looks up to see the aforementioned items sitting on the shelf behind Stiles' bed. He grabs the moisturizer and shakes his head disapprovingly while he pumps some into his palm.

"This isn't even good quality," Jackson mutters. "I swear, if I get some kind of rash..."

Stiles shrugs, and puts his hands behind his head. "Hey, gimme a break," He says, grinning. "I have to buy the stuff in bulk from Costco, and they only offer a few brands."

Jackson rolls his eyes again. He gives Stiles' pants a yank with one hand, and they and his boxers come down enough to leave him exposed. That seems to shut Stiles up. Jackson thinks he might even blush a little.

He starts slowly, pumping his hand rhythmically up and down Stiles dick. Stiles shuts his eyes, and Jackson half smiles at the way he starts chewing his bottom lip. He's trying to hold in one of those moans, Jackson can tell. He speeds up, trying to coax it out of him. It doesn't take much. The faster rhythm elicits a symphony of babbles and moans from Stiles lips.

Stiles puts his hand on the back of Jacksons neck and tries to tug him down, and for a moment Jackson thinks he's trying to make him give him a blow-job. Yeah, right, that's not going to be happening, if for no other reason than his dick is covered in a palm-full of cheap moisturizer.

But Stiles doesn't try to force his head down, he just pulls Jackson's head towards his and presses a sloppy kiss against his lips. That's fine, but once Stiles has him down there he doesn't let go, and his grip on the back of Jackson's neck is surprisingly firm. The new position makes the hand-job awkward, so Jackson flips them over so Stiles is on top.

Once they'd adjusted to the switch Jackson increases the speed of his hand again, and Stiles breath turns into short strained gasps against his neck. He starts to stutter something—Jackson thinks it might have been his name—but then his face screws up and he bites his lip again as he shoots his load all over Jackson's chest.

Jackson pulls his hand away, sticky with moisturizer and cum. Stiles hovers over him, trying to catch his breath. His eyes open, and his red face turns even redder when he sees the mess. "I—you—I didn't—"

"It's fine," Jackson says. "Hand me the tissues, will you?"

Stiles nods and does as Jackson asks, then rolls off and collapses beside him as Jackson begins to clean himself up. He wads the tissues up and tosses them in the general direction of the garbage when he's done.

Stiles turns over, so his chest is pressing against Jackson's shoulder. He lazily kisses Jackson ear, licking along the lobe. It feels nice, but then Stiles' arm starts to drift across his chest and Jackson stiffens.

"I should go," He says, sitting up suddenly.

"What?"

Jackson stands up and starts looking around for his shirt. Stiles springs up next to him.

"You're going?" Stiles asks. "Why—come on, wait—" Jackson stops and turns around. "I just... I mean, you never, y'know..." Stiles glances away. " _Finished,_ " He looks back up, and Jackson has to physically force himself not to roll his eyes.

"It's fine, Stiles," He says, "I have to go,"

"To find Derek?" Stiles asks. He sounds annoyed. "Why don't you just go to his house? Not that I'd  _recommended_ that right now, considering, but—"

Jackson shakes his head. "I can't," He mutters. He spots his shirt lying on Stiles' desk, and grabs it. "He told me to stay away..."

Jackson pulls his shirt on and buttons it up. He can feel Stiles staring at him. "...was  _Derek_ the one who fucked up your car?" Stiles asks. Jackson says nothing. "Oh, my god. You guys are so fucked up."

"Hey, join the fucking club, sidekick," Jackson snaps. Stiles mouth opens a little. He looks hurt. Suddenly Jackson has the strange urge to scream and slam his fists against the walls. This is why he hates  _people._ He takes a deep breath. "Stiles, I—"

"It's fine," Stiles says, turning away. He grabs his own shirt from the floor, and pulls it over his head. "If you've got to go, then get gone." He pulls the door of his bedroom open, and gestures out of it.

_Ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching._  Jackson turns around to leave, but pauses in the doorway. He puts his hand on the back of Stiles neck and pulls him in for one last kiss. Stiles seems reluctant at first, but after a moment he gives in and kisses him back.

_...You want someone that terrifies you,_ Jackson remembers Derek once telling him. _Shakes you to your core... someone that can and will hurt you, because that's what you need. That's why you're here, with me, and not someone like Stiles._

Jackson pulls back, and looks at Stiles. "You're a decent person, Stiles," He says. Then he leaves.


	9. Explanation

Jackson is getting ready for bed when he hears a noise, and turns around just in time to see Derek burst in through his window. He's given absolutely no time to get a hold of any emotions he might be feeling—surprise, happiness, anger, relief—before Derek's across the room and slamming Jackson back into a wall. He slams him into the wall and then  _growls_ at him, eyes bright blue, fangs out and everything.

If Jackson thought could have managed it, he would have punched Derek in the face.

"Are you  _fucking_ serious?" Jackson yells at Derek's stupid half-wolfed-out face. He tries to shove Derek away, but Derek just holds him still. For a moment, Jackson thinks he might hate him. "Three weeks of  _nothing_ and then  _this?!_ You clawed the words STAY AWAY into the hood of my fucking car and then  _this?_ This is what you give me!?"

He doesn't think he's ever been so angry before. Three weeks of silence, three weeks of questioning what he'd done, why Derek was doing this, what he could do to fix it—three weeks of disgusting behaviour that could only be described as  _pining_ for this fucking asshole—and this is what Derek does. Breaks in through his window, slams him into a wall and growls at him, like  _he's_ the one who has a right to be angry. Like he's the one who was wronged. Jackson could kill him.

"Jackson?" Jackson freezes, hearing his mother calling up the stairs. The blue in Derek's eyes fades, and they look at each other. "Is everything all right?"

Derek gives him a look, and Jackson sneers at him. Like he's going to say anything. What an idiot. "It's fine, Mom," Jackson calls back. "I just... fell."

There's silence, and Jackson cringes. Derek rolls his eyes.

"Oh... all right," His mother eventually replies. Jackson breathes out in relief, but then quickly switches back to a glare for Derek's benefit.

Derek glares back. "Why, Jackson?"

"Why,  _what?_ "

The blue flashes in Derek's eyes again.  _"Stiles."_ Derek's fingers curl around the straps of Jackson's black wife beater. Jackson sees his fangs come out again, and when he speaks it's with more than a hint of a growl. "I went over there. I could  _smell_ you in his room. In his  _bed—_ all  _over_  him." Derek's eyes are blue and glowing again, burning into Jackson with more anger than Jackson think's he's ever seen from Derek.

"What the hell do  _you_ care?" Jackson sneers. "You're the one that tossed  _me_ away, remember? Remember how you  _totalled_ my car? And yeah, I know I threw a tantrum in your living room, but I think if you compare the value of my perfectly maintained Porsche to your crumby burnt up— "

Derek cuts Jackson off with a low growl, barring his fangs. Jackson rolls his eyes. "It... it just  _happened,_ alright?" Jackson says. "I went over there looking for you—I wanted  _you._ But youweren't there." It comes out so much more pathetic than he'd wanted. The words were supposed to be biting, angry, but by the sentences end all of that had disappeared. And for that, Jackson hates himself.

Derek shakes his head. The blue glow fades, but his face remains stone. "You shouldn't have done that. You  _used_ him, Jackson."

Jackson grits his teeth. "I don't seem to recall hearing much complaints when I was using  _you,_ " He spits.

Derek's mouth opens a bit, and for just a moment his stone mask seems to fail him. He looks surprised... and hurt.

The look is a punch in Jackson's gut. For all the insults and abuses he's thrown at Derek over the last few months, he'd never thought he'd actually be able to  _hurt_  him. Even when he'd gotten himself thrown out of his house, he'd never realized...

"Well, isn't this nice."

Derek's whole body goes rigid, and he lets go of Jackson and turns around to face the man who's suddenly appeared in his bedroom. He's in a long black trench coat, and leaning against the wall next to the open window.

"Derek," The man says. "Why don't you introduce me to your little friend?"

The man smiles at Jackson, but his eyes are cold. Derek's shoulders are tense, and he's staring down at the floor. Jackson doesn't know if he wants to stand in front of Derek in a feeble attempt to protect him from whoever the hell this guy is, or hide behind Derek to protect himself.

A few moments pass, and Derek says nothing. The man rolls his eyes. "Well, alright then. Your manners never were what they should have been, but it just so happens Jackson and I are already acquainted," He looks at Jackson and smiles again, and his eyes turn red. "Sort of,"

Jackson stumbles backwards and slams himself into the wall behind him. Suddenly his mouth is dry, and his heart is pounding in his chest, even as the red in the mans eyes fades. The video store. The school. This was the monster, the  _real_ monster. The one murdering people all over town, the one who'd almost murdered  _him,_ twice now. Had murdered him, at least a dozen times in his nightmares.

And now he was standing in his bedroom, smiling at him.

Derek takes a step backwards, putting himself closer to Jackson. The man chuckles.

"Tell me, Derek, how long has this been going on for?" He asks, then tilts his head to the side. "How long did you think you could hide him from me for?"

"He doesn't have anything to do with us, Peter," Derek says. He's not looking at the ground anymore, but staring straight on at "Peter". "Leave him alone."

A baffled look comes over Peter's face. "Well, of course I'll leave him alone, Derek," He says. "What exactly is it that you think I'm going to do to him?" Derek says nothing, and Peter shakes his head. "Derek, you wound me, really." He walks slowly across the room, and Derek straightens his back. Peter places a hand on Derek's shoulder. "We're family, Derek." He says. "You really need to trust me a little more,"

Peter turns to Jackson, whose mind is still reeling over the word  _family._ Derek didn't  _have_ any family—they were all dead. The red-eyed monster from the video store couldn't have been Derek's family. Jackson felt like he was having one of his nightmares.

"It was nice meeting you, Jackson," Peter says, in that cold, steely voice. He smiles. "Again."

Jackson and Derek watch as Peter turns and saunters back over to the window. He flashes them one more predatory smile before jumping out. Jackson stares at the open window, and feels sick. He glances at Derek, and sees a similar look on his face.

Jackson wants to say something, but nothing comes to mind.

"I should go," Derek says, looking back at the floor again.

Jackson's mouth falls open, and he stares in shock as Derek makes to head back out the window. "Wha— _wait,_ " He grabs Derek's arm. "You can't actually be serious—" Derek gives him a look, and Jackson drops his arm. "You know what I mean. You can't leave. Not after... not after  _that!_ I mean, you're not even gonna give me some kind of explanation?"

Derek shakes his head. "Jackson—"

"No,  _you_   _shut right the fuck up,"_  Jackson snaps, pointing his finger in Derek's face. Derek's eyebrows raise in surprise, and Jackson throws his arms up in the air. "Jesus Christ, what do you want me to say? You want me to say 'sorry'? You want me to say I didn't mean it, about using you or about any of the shitty things I've ever said to you? Fine, alright, I'm  _sorry._ " He looks at Derek, suddenly aware of how exhausted he is. "Now will you please just stay?"

Derek gives him a hard look. "That was my uncle, Peter. He's the alpha, he's the one who attacked you and Lydia at the video store, and the school," Derek takes a seat on the edge of Jacksons bed, and rests his forearms on his knees.

"Oh," Jackson says. It takes him a moment to process that—he thinks a part of him had been expecting Derek to leave anyways. "What the hell is an 'alpha?'" Jackson takes a seat next to Derek on the bed.

"The most powerful and dangerous of my kind," Derek mutters. "Scott and I beta's... the alpha— _Peter—_ is the one who turned Scott in the first place."

Jackson's eyebrows raise on his forehead. "Yeah? So, he could turn me too, right?"

" _No,"_ Derek snaps, turning and glaring at Jackson with blue eyes. Jackson jumps a little. Derek's blue eyes fade quickly, and furrows his brow. "Sorry, I didn't—" Derek turns away again, his jaw tight. "Yes, he could turn you." He says. "But you'd be  _his—_ part of his pack, I mean." Jackson can hear the bitterness is Derek's voice. It makes him feel sort of pleased, in a sick way. "Obviously if that's really what you  _want,_ go ahead, but I think if you talk to Scott about how  _he_ likes it, you might find that being Peter's puppet isn't as glamourous as it sounds."

"Alright, alright," Jackson says, rolling his eyes. "Forget it."

"What?" Derek looks back at him. He looks surprised.

"Have you known about Peter the whole time?" Jackson asks. "That he was the alpha, that he was the one..."

"Killing people?" Jackson nods. "No. I knew it was an alpha, but I didn't know who the alpha was. That's what I needed Scott's help for." Derek glances down. "It was the day when you trashed my living room. That night Stiles and I went to the hospital, checking up on an old lead..." Derek says quietly. "Peter was there. I mean, he was always  _there,_ but he was supposed to be  _catatonic._ " Derek snorts humourlessly. "It was him the whole time. The murders... Laura..."

Derek just stares off at the wall, and Jackson sees how tired he is. He puts his hand on Derek's back. After a moment, Derek turns to him, and Jackson kisses him. There's something in the way Derek kisses him back that kind of hurts. If there's anything Jackson knows, it's what desperation feels like. The way Derek kisses him, Jackson can tell he's looking for something. Something like what Jackson used to go to him to find.

Jackson wishes, for about the first time in his life, that he hadn't always run away from talking. Maybe if he hadn't, he'd have something to say to Derek to make him feel better. Be able to offer him something more than his bed, and his hands and his mouth.

As it is, his hands are inside Derek's jacket, pushing it off his shoulders and then throwing it aside. And Derek is tense, but he lets Jackson lie him back on the bed. He pushes Derek's shirt up, and his mouth trails along his chest.

Derek groans, quietly, as Jackson continues down to his stomach, and his fingers drift down between his legs.

This isn't what Derek needs, Jackson knows that. But it's all he has to give.

* * *

It's almost one o'clock in the morning, and Jackson thinks he might be about to fall asleep. He'd needed a few minutes after the third—or maybe the fourth?—time they'd done it, but a few minutes had turned into 10, which had turned into... well, Jackson wasn't sure, because he wasn't facing the clock anymore and there was no way he was going to turn around and look. He's much too comfortable like this, lying on his stomach with Derek next to him, close enough to kiss should he have the urge. Derek is running one hand slowly up and down his back, and Jackson feels his eyes close.

A moment later, a thought occurs to him, and he opens his eyes again. "Hey, if Peter came back the night I trashed your house, where were you before that?" He asks. He feels Derek's hand still on his back. "You'd already been ignoring me for like four days at that point."

In the dark, Jackson thinks he sees a guilty look on Derek's face. "Well... I needed a few days. After Scott..."

"He said he'd keep his mouth shut—"

"That wasn't the  _point—_ "

"And why the hell did you trash my car!?"

Derek groans, rolls over onto his back and covers his face with his hands."Again with the fucking car—look, send me the bill alright? I'll take of it, jesus christ." He shakes his head. "I had to make sure you would stay away, Jackson. Peter is... dangerous. The fire changed him. Revenge is the only thing he cares about." Derek set his jaw, and gave Jackson a hard look. "I couldn't let you get caught in the crossfire."

"So your plan was to just avoid me forever?" Jackson asks. "How's that going?"

Derek huffs. "It was going fine until you fucked Stiles," He crosses his arms and stares up at the ceiling.

"I didn't  _fuck_ him," Jackson sneers. He turns onto his side, facing Derek. "I just sort of... jerked him off, or whatever."

Derek continues to frown up at the ceiling. "Well," He just says. "That's..."

"Better?"

"—still bad," Derek looks at him, and Jackson thinks he's frowning a bit less.

"Slightly less though," Jackson leans in and kisses Derek's neck. "You feel slightly less angry," He kisses alongs Derek's jaw line, and bites lightly at his ear lobe.

"Slightly," Derek allows. He puts his hand on the back of Jackson's neck, pulling him towards his mouth. "Just... don't do that again, alright?"

Jackson nods. "I won't," He murmurs. He pulls back a bit, and looks Derek in the eyes. "But you can't do that again either." He tells him.

Derek sighs, and rolls his eyes. "Yes, I promise not to lay another hand on your precious Porsche," He says.

Jackson feels his face start turning red, and he's about to rip into him when he realizes that Derek's smiling. The anger slips away, and he shoves at Derek's chest. "That's not funny, asshole," He says, but Derek's grinning at him and it's too hard not to grin back. "I'm serious, next time something happens we're gonna talk about it like normal fucking adults, okay?"

Derek laughs, and covers his mouth to stifle the sound. "I'm sorry, Jackson—" He says. "It's just, I don't really think either of those words really apply to us,"

"I don't know about that," He raises an eyebrow, "I mean you're definitely old enough to be adult," Derek stops laughing. His face falls back into its default-glare so easily that if Jackson hadn't seen it for himself he never would have believed it was capable of smiling at all. "You've got to be at least what, 25, 26?"

"I'm 22," Derek tells him. He sounds defensive.

"Legally an adult," Jackson runs his fingers over Derek's furrowed brow, and kisses the corner of his mouth. "Emotionally, however, we're probably about equal,"

Jackson expects Derek to deny that, but Derek just kisses him back. He turns and presses Jackson back on the bed. Derek's kisses are soft, and his touch is gentle. Jackson doesn't fight it—doesn't fight him. Doesn't push against him, doesn't demand more. Tonight, this feels like enough.

Jackson lies on his stomach, and hugs his arms around his pillow as Derek pushes into him again. His head is buzzing with that overwhelmed too-fucked feeling he's come to love. Lazy calm and warm pleasure, the sweetest burn.

Derek kisses the back of his neck as he fucks him, slowly, softly. In an effort to keep himself quiet, Jackson bites down on his bottom lip so hard he tastes blood. When Derek leans in and kisses him, Jackson wonders if he tastes it too.

When they're both finished, lying next to each other in the bed, sweat-drenched and breathing hard, Jackson rolls over and lies back down against Derek's chest. He feels Derek give a slight start, but neither of them says anything. After a moment, Derek puts his arms around him, and Jackson lets his eyes close.

As he starts to drift off to sleep, Jackson can feel Derek running his fingers through his hair. He thinks that maybe this was what Derek needed, after all. What they both needed. Maybe.


	10. Dreaming

Jackson is slow waking up in the morning. His back is stiff and there's another all-too-familiar ache lower down. But his bed is warm, warmer than usual, and the drowsiness in his head feels comfortable instead of groggy and sick.

It's a nice feeling, and Jackson tries to cling to sleeps drowsy comfort, but after a few moments it slips away, and the memory of the night before comes back to him. It comes in a series of flashes, almost like pictures. He remembers Peter's smile, and horrible glowing red eyes. He remembers the fear on Derek's face, and the helplessness.

He remembers trying to comfort him. Crawling into Derek's arms, and sleeping against his chest.

Jackson can still feel Derek next to him now, the source of all the extra warmth in his bed. Derek's chest is pressed firmly against his back, and his breath is hot on Jackson's ear. His arms are still around him. His grip is firm, but Jackson's knows from experience it wouldn't be hard to get out of it, if he wanted to. And he would be lying if he said he didn't, just for a moment. For less than a split second, Jackson feels the slightest twangof panic. The familiar desire to pull out of Derek's arms, get out get away. The routine.

For once he doesn't give in to it, and almost immediately, it passes. The panic leaves and Jackson breathes out and relaxes back into Derek's arms, where he'd been so comfortable all night long.

When he finally gets around to opening his eyes, he squints at his alarm clock to check the time. His vision is still fuzzy from sleep, but he makes out that the blurry red numbers of his clock read "6:05" in the morning. It's time to get up.

Careful and slow, Jackson turns onto his back, and rubs his eyes. It occurs to him that his alarm should have gone off, and he doesn't know why it hasn't. He's lucky he woke up anyways, or he would have been late for early morning lacrosse practice.

Next to him, even in his sleep, Derek's brow is tightly furrowed, as though he's extremely annoyed with whatever it is he's dreaming about.

"Derek," Jackson murmurs, nudging gently against his chest. Derek grunts, and Jackson feels his arms wrap more tightly around him. Jackson smiles to himself, and nudges Derek again. "Mmm, come on, wake up,"

"Five more minutes," Derek mumbles, burying his face into Jackson's neck.

Jackson snorts, and rubs his eyes again. "I have lacrosse practice," He says. He presses his palms against his eyes and groans. Suddenly the idea of getting out of the bed and starting his day seems about as appealing as pulling off all his finger and toe nails.

Derek grunts again. "Skip it,"

"You're the one always saying I  _can't_ remember?" Jackson says. He takes his hands away from his eyes to give Derek a pointed look, which is entirely lost on him because he's still half asleep and his eyes are shut. Jackson gives Derek's shoulder a shake, and Derek finally opens his eyes. "Remember?"

Derek rolls his eyes and then rolls onto his back. "I said you shouldn't quit lacrosse, because it would look suspicious," Derek says. "Missing one practice isn't quitting."

"Well, I may have missed more than one practice already," Jackson says. "And the Coach might have said something along the lines of 'if you miss one more practice I'll kick you off the team and make Greenburg Captain.'" Jackson stares up at the ceiling, and tries to ignore the look he can feel Derek giving him.

" _Why?_ "

"Oh, I don't know, maybe it has something to do with the emotionally unstable werewolf nutjob I've been seeing lately," Jackson snaps. He climbs off the bed, grabs his crumpled boxers from off the floor, and yanks them on. "Or, you know,  _not_ seeing." He puts his hands on hips and glares at Derek." I mean, I know you were busy with your crazy evil uncle, but the last few weeks haven't exactly been great for me either. Just because I wasn't having my usual nervous breakdowns at your house doesn't mean I wasn't  _having_ them—"

Derek sits up on the bed and grabs Jackson's wrist. "I'm sorry," He says.

Jackson grits his teeth for a moment, but the anger's already passing. "Don't be..." He mutters. "You thought you were doing the right thing—probably were, doing the right thing," He looks at Derek and squints. "Just for the record, you should know that I've never been a fan of doing the right thing."

Derek doesn't let go of his wrist as Jackson leans in for a kiss. Instead he tugs him forward, and puts his other hand on Jackson's waist. "What do you even need to practice for, anyways?" Derek mumbles as Jackson kisses him. "I've seen you play, you know what you're doing," Jackson rolls his eyes, "Skip practice, come back to bed with me..."

"Derek, I'm good at lacrosse  _because_ I practice," Jackson says. Well, he'd  _used_ to practice anyways. It had used to seem important. "And ever since you fucking  _werewolves_ showed up and decided to make Scott 'wet-his-pants-until-the-third-grade' McCall one of you, I have to practice even  _harder_ than before, just so I can run half as fast and play half as well as him."

A smile comes across Derek's face. He takes the hand that was on Jackson's waist and slowly runs it up Jackson's chest. "I don't really think you need to worry, Jackson," Derek's hand is on the back of his neck now, and he pulls him in for another kiss. "We both know you're fast already," Derek leans back and flashes Jackson another grin.

Jackson's eyes narrow. "And on that note, I have a practice to get too," Jackson says, snatching his wrist away. Derek shrugs and leans back against the headboard looking way too pleased with himself. Jackson is in the middle of formulating some sort of horrible retort when he catches a glimpse of his alarm clock, which still says it's five after six. "What the—"

He walks over to the other side of the bed and examines the clock. He'd been half asleep when he'd looked at it before, and he hadn't noticed that there was something wrong with it. Now that he was looking at it properly, he can see it's sort of... crunched looking. Jackson picks it up, and peers at it closely. There are  _holes_ in the clock, like it had been skewered with something sharp.

Jackson puts the clock down, and turns around to look at Derek, who's staring off across the room with what's probably supposed to be an innocent look on his face. "You broke my alarm clock?"

Derek scratches at the back of his neck. "...It woke me up,"

"That's what it's supposed to do, genius! It's an  _alarm clock!_ " Jackson stalks over to his dresser and grabs his cellphone to check the time. "Fuck!" He's late. So much for the shower.

Jackson tosses the cellphone onto his bed and then starts digging through his drawers and pulling out clean clothes.

"I'll buy you a new alarm clock," Derek says as he watches Jackson stumble around the room, gathering up the things he'll need for school and shoving them into his backpack. "A better one. The kind with an iPod player and a decent set of speakers."

"Derek, that's like a stereo system," Jackson says, tripping over his feet as he pulls on the shorts of his lacrosse uniform. Derek's out of the bed in a heart beat, and manages to catch him before he crashes face first into the floor. Derek grins at him and Jackson's face burns as he sets him right.

"Right," Derek says. "I'll buy you stereo system."

"But I don't  _need_ a stereo,"

Derek doesn't seem to think that matters. "I'm sure you can program some kind of alarm," Derek looks him over for a moment, and raises an eyebrow. "Don't you need to put on some sort of a... a cup thing?" He asks.

"Wha—" Jackson puts his head in his hands and groans loudly. " _Fuck!_ "

Eventually Jackson manages to finish getting ready, and Derek stops laughing at him long enough to get dressed himself. Even though Jackson's late for practice, they take their time saying goodbye. Derek kisses him, and it starts out slow and gentle like the night before, but as their mouths move together, and Derek's tongue pushes against Jackson's, Derek seems to grow hungrier and hungrier until they're back to their usual ferocity. And Jackson is on the verge of grabbing fistfuls of Derek jacket, pulling him back over to the bed and just getting lost it in. Would be doing that, if it wasn't for how late he already was... or the fact that he can feel more of that needy, nagging desperation in Derek's kiss, and now it's got him worried.

"Derek, come on," Jackson mutters, trying to pull back. Derek won't let him go. He pulls Jackson's bottom lip with his teeth, kisses him harder. Digs his fingers into Jackson's back. "I gotta go... practice..."

Derek pulls back suddenly and puts his hands on Jackson's shoulders. "Jackson, promise me you won't do anything stupid for the next few days," He says. Jackson opens his mouth, offended. "I'm serious. You have to be careful, now that Peter knows about you—and us." Derek's grip tightens on his shoulders. "Until I figure out how to deal with him, you have to promise me you won't go anywhere near my house, or the woods—and no drinking, either, you need to be alert. Don't go off anywhere on your own. Don't talk to anyone you don't know—"

"But what if they've got candy?" Jackson interrupts. "Can I talk to them if they've got candy, and a big white van?"

Derek doesn't look impressed. "This isn't a joke, Jackson. Peter is dangerous. He needs my help, but he doesn't trust me. I don't want him using you against me, alright? I need to know you'll be safe, and won't act like an idiot and just drunkenly wander into his hands."

"Can't I just stay with you?" Jackson raises his eyebrows. "Wouldn't that be safest?"

Derek shakes his head. "He's too strong, I can't fight him. He's the Alpha, if he decides to hurt you..." He trails off and his brow furrows. Jackson can feel his heartbeat quicken as panic starts to sink in. Derek's  _scared._ This is bad. Very bad.

Suddenly lacrosse doesn't seem at all important. He needs a drink. A strong one.

"Jackson, it's going to be okay," Derek says. He rubs the back of Jackson's neck.

Jackson snorts. "Yeah, sure. You wanna say that again, slowly?" He asks. Jackson expects an eyeroll, or another stern  _"this isn't a joke, Jackson,"_ but instead Derek lifts up Jacksons hand, takes two of his fingers and presses them against his own throat.

"It's going to be okay," Derek repeats. Jackson can feel Derek's pulse under his fingers, slow and steady. "I won't let him hurt you, but you need to promise you'll do as I say, alright?" Jackson nods, and Derek pulls his hand away from his throat. "Good. There's a dance tomorrow at your school. I want you to go to it. Find a date if you can. Lydia, or Allison or someone."

Jackson made a face. "What? Ah come on, don't make me—"

"The dance is the safest place for you to be," Derek says. "The whole school will be there, he won't be able to touch you. Not with so many people around."

"Yeah, fine, alright," Jackson says. "I'll go to the stupid dance."

"Good," Derek places his hands on either of Jackson's face, and kisses him. Jackson sighs. Coach Finstock is going to kill him for being so late. Again. Maybe it would just be better if he didn't go at all...

"I probably won't be able to see you for a few days," Derek mumbles. "Until I know how to deal with Peter, it'll be better if I stay away, alright?" Derek looks at him, and Jackson tries to hold back a groan. "If anything comes up, I'll send you a text, alright?"

Derek takes his hands away from Jackson's face, and pulls a cellphone out of his jacket pocket. Jackson gapes at him. "You have a  _cellphone?_ "

"Of course I have a cellphone," Derek says, giving him a look like it's completely ridiculous for Jackson to be surprised about this totally normal thing. As though everything else about him is just always so normal, and this isn't at all out of the ordinary.

Derek Hale, beta werewolf, lives in the half-demolished home his entire family died in. Owns a cellphone, knows how to text.

"Stop looking at me like that," Derek snaps. Jackson's mouth is still hanging open. It takes some effort to close it. "I know what you're thinking, 'normal plus Derek equals weird.' Guess what? I also do laundry, and get gas for my car when it runs out, and go grocery shopping. Do you need a minute? Are you going to pass out?"

"Yeah, I mean, I might," Jackson says, half-serious. "Grocery shopping? Wow. Do you floss, too?"

Jackson has never seen Derek rolls his eyes quite so intensely before. It's as though his entire being is annoyed with Jackson.

Derek thrusts his phone forward. "Just put your number in, all right? Jesus."

There's a smirk on Jackson's face as he enters his number into Derek's contacts. It slips off when he's done, and he sees that there are only four other numbers programmed. Peter Hale, Scott McCall, Stiles Stilinski and— "Who is Quamar Harmada?"

"The owner of the indian restaurant on main street," Derek says, taking his phone back. "Ordering take-out is also something I do." Derek tucks his phone into the pocket of his jeans, and then takes off his jacket. "Here, wear this," He drapes the jacket over Jackson's shoulders. "It'll cover up your scent some, make you harder to track." Jackson slides his arms into the leather sleeves, and raises an eyebrow at Derek. "Don't look at me like that. It's just a jacket, I have others."

Jackson smiles. "Woah, back up there Derek," He says, leaning in for a kiss. "You're getting a little too romantic for me."

"We can deal with romance after I know your safe from Peter," Derek gives Jackson a quick kiss, and then opens his window up. "I have to go," He says, putting one leg up on the frame. "I'll send you a text message so you'll have my number in case of emergency."

"Let me get this straight," Jackson says, putting a hand on Derek's shoulder to keep him from jumping out the window. "When  _you_ have somewhere to be, you just get to take off instantly, but when  _I_ have somewhere to be, I get a broken alarm clock and an hour long delay?"

Derek grins at him, and gives him one final kiss. "I'll see you later, sweetheart," He says. Then he leaps out the window, lands on two feet like it's nothing, and walks off down the street.

* * *

Finstock yells at Jackson for a solid ten minutes. By the end of it, Jackson's not even sure he's speaking in coherent sentences anymore. He catches only a few words every now and then, things like "responsibility", "last tuesday" and "those damn rabbits." After he's done shouting, he makes Jackson run laps for the rest of practice.

His day only gets better once practice is over, and Jackson himself cornered by Scott and Stiles. They find him while he's still getting dressed in the locker room, so he can't even run away.

"Jackson, I need to ask you for a favour," Scott begins.

"No," Jackson replies, pulling on his shirt.

Despite his super-heightened werewolf hearing, Scott somehow manages not to hear him. "You have to take Allison to the dance,"

Jackson buttons up his shirt, and is on the verge of giving him another " _no_ " when the actual question sinks in. He looks at Scott and furrows his brow. "You want  _me_ to take her to the formal?"

"I don't  _want_ you to, I  _need_ you too," Scott says.

Jackson sighs, weighing his promise to Derek to do as he'd said against his desire to not do any favours for Scott McCall. "Yeah alright, fine," He says.

Scott looks surprised. "Seriously?"

Jackson raises his eyebrows. "Sure, why not?" He pulls Derek's jacket out of his locker, and shrugs it on. "What, you don't actually want me to?"

"No, I just didn't think you'd—" Scott breaks off mid-sentence with a strange look on his face. He looks around the room, slightly panicked. "Dude, there it is again," He said, smacking Stiles on the arm. "I'm telling you, he's here somewhere."

Stiles just gives a deep sigh, and pinches his eyes tiredly. "It's the jacket, Scott," He says. "It's Derek's. He's not  _here,_ "

"What, what jacket?" Scott turns back to them and looks at the jacket Jackson's wearing. He furrows his brow, and then leans in and  _sniffs._ Jackson immediately steps away from him, and looks around the locker room hoping no one saw that. "Why are you wearing his jacket?"

"Duh, because he's the head cheerleader and Derek's the hunky quarterback," Stiles sneers.

"It's just a jacket, Stiles," Jackson says. "He has others."

"Jackson, what... are you talking... about?" Scott says, raising his eyebrows and giving Jackson a  _very_ pointed look, as though he's trying to remind him that he hadn't wanted people to know about him and Derek.

Jackson rolls his eyes. "It's fine, Scott," He says. "He knows."

"Yeah, I  _know,_ " Stiles says, rolling his own eyes. He leans back against the locker behind him and crosses his arms. The look on his face reminds Jackson far too much of Lydia's  _"why won't you take me shopping"_  pout.

"Oh," Scott frowns. "How?"

Stiles glances at him, and raises one eyebrow. "Uh, I told him," Jackson says quickly. "I was looking for Derek, and... I told him."

"Oh," Scott says again. The three of them stand there for a moment. They're the only one's still in the locker room, and at a few second of awkward silence passes before Scott says "Alright, well I guess we should get to class. You'll ask Allison?"

"Yes, Scott," Jackson says, closing his locker with a sigh.

Scott nods. "Thanks..." He says, although he doesn't look very thankful at all. "Promise me you'll keep her safe, okay?"

"I promise I'll keep her with me, and I'll keep myself safe. And since she'll be with me, she'll be safe too."

Scott gives him a look. "Well don't strain yourself or anything,"

"Wasn't planning on it,"

Scott shakes his head, and looks at Stiles. "Uh, you go on ahead," Stiles says, swinging his arms by his side. "I'm gonna go look through the lost and found box, for um... this thing, that I lost. I'm hoping the box found it. Because, y'know, that's its job..."

Jackson rolls his eyes once more, but Scott seems to accept it. He waves goodbye to Stiles and leaves. Stiles stares after him for a minute, and then turns to Jackson. "So, I guess you and Derek made up," He says, plucking at the sleeve of the leather jacket. Jackson nods. "Where'd you end up finding him?"

"I didn't... he uh, found me," Jackson mumbles.

"Well, hey that's awesome," Stiles looks at him raises his eyebrows. "You know he's evil, right?"

"What?" Jackson asks, taken aback.

"Your boyfriend," Stiles says. "He's evil,"

"Wha—he is not  _evil,_ " Jackson snaps. "Or my boyfriend, either. " Stiles rolls his eyes. "And what the hell are you doing judging me, huh? I know you're into him, you didn't exactly  _deny_ it yesterday."

Stiles shrugs. "Maybe I am, but I'm also into a lot of Japanese hentai porn. That doesn't mean I'd actually want to like, get it on with some kind of crazy tentacle alien."

Jackson's mouth opens, but he doesn't know how to respond. "I—that's not—" Jackson shakes his head, and tries to ignore the way too pleased smirk on Stiles' face. "Look Derek isn't evil, alright?"

"Uh, yeah, he is. He's working with Peter—whom I'm just going to assume you know about now—and is probably going to help him kill people and I don't know about you but to me that seems pretty damned evil,"

Jackson can feel himself get angrier and when he says "He's not  _working_ with Peter, Stiles!" it comes out a lot louder than he intends. "He's  _scared_ of him, he's trying to figure out how to deal with him." Jackson jabs his finger into Stiles' chest a few times. "You think this is fucking easy for him? Peter is the only family he has left and the guys a fucking  _psychopath!_ "

"Jesus christ alright!" Stiles shouts, swatting Jackson's hand away. He rubs at his chest where Jackson poked him. "I mean if that's what you need to believe, whatever."

Frustrated, Jackson mimes strangling the air in front of Stiles while pretending it's his neck. Fooling around with him was definitely a bad idea, because now if he strangles him to death he knows he'll feel bad about it. "You are—so  _annoying,_ "

Stiles just shrugs again, and resumes his position against the lockers. He lets his head fall back against them, and shuts his eyes. "Yeah whatever..." He mumbles. Jackson looks at him, but Stiles is quiet. Jackson isn't sure if their conversation is over or not.

"Uh, Stiles?"

"Uh-huh?"

"Can we talk about yesterday... for a second?"

Stiles sigh, and opens his eyes. "We seriously don't have to, Jackson. I get it, you're with Derek, Derek's with you, it was just a dumb mistake. I understand, we don't need to _dwell._ "

Jackson stuffs his hands into his pockets and looks at the ground. "I never said it was a mistake,"

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Stiles stand up straight. "Really?" Jackson nods. He makes himself look up, just in time to see Stiles' expression fall again. "But you're with Derek." It's not a question, or a judgment. Just a statement of facts.

"Yeah, I am. But I don't... I mean, I don't regret it." Jackson says. After a moment, he reconsiders. "Well... some of it, maybe." Stiles looks offended, and Jackson hurries to explain. "I just, I mean Derek's an idiot and some times I want to kill him, but what we did hurt him and that's not what I want. And it wasn't really fair to you either. So I regret that, I guess. But not..." He trails off and shrugs.

Stiles squints at him for a moment. "Yeah, alright," He says eventually. "I get what you're saying."

"Well... that's good,"

Stiles glances at the clock on the wall. "We should probably get going. We're late for class,"

Jackson nods, and he and Stiles begin to walk out of the locker room. "Hey, can I ask you something?" Stiles says.

"Sure,"

"How was I?" Stiles asks, raising his eyebrows. "I mean I know you're not exactly supposed to ask, but what the hell, right? I mean, I might not have another opportunity to find out for like 25 years,"

"You were alright," Jackson says. Stiles holds his arms out at his sides and makes a noise that Jackson thinks means he's offended. Jackson tries not to smile. "Better than alright. Good, even. You're a decent kisser, especially I'm assuming you'd never done it before,"

"Well, Scott and I kissed once when we were 13, but other than that—" Stiles pauses. "Shit, don't tell Scott I said that. It's not supposed to be public information."

Jackson laughs, and shakes his head. "Yeah, don't worry. I won't tell anyone." He says. Well, except maybe Derek, he thinks, smiling to himself.

Almost on cue, Jackson feels his cellphone vibrate in his pocket. He stops walking and takes it out to see he's received a text message from an unknown number. It reads "Please remember not to be an idiot,"

Jackson smiles a little. He hears Stiles scoff. "What's that?" He asks, as Jackson saves Derek's number to his contacts. "A message from Derek proclaiming his undying devotion and love for you?"

Jackson rolls his eyes, and shoves his phone back into his pocket. "Yeah, idiot," He says, walking off down the hall. "That's exactly what it said."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it seems like I've forgotten what sort of story I'm writing because suddenly it's like "hey fluff!" but I assure you, I have not.
> 
> *smiles*


	11. Wish You Were Here

Jackson sits in his car, tapping his fingers against the steer wheel and fighting the urge to reach into the glove compartment, take out the bottle of bourbon he has stashed there and chug it. He doesn't want to be here, and he  _really_  doesn't want to be here  _sober._

In the passengers seat, Allison is staring out the window and biting the nail of her thumb. Jackson's pretty sure she's thinking something along the same lines. That's his fault, he knows. He wishes he were better company.

To break the silence, Jackson clears his throat. Allison starts, and turns to face him. She smiles awkwardly.

"I'm uh, I'm glad you agreed to come with me tonight," Jackson says. "As friends, I mean."

Allison smiles again. It's tired looking. "No problem," She says. It doesn't sound like she's trying very hard to be convincing. "It'll be fun." She's not trying at all.

Jackson begins to run his fingers through his hair, but stops because he actually spent some time on it today, and messing it up so early in the night would be a waste of five minutes and a glob of hair gel. "Allison..." He begins, not really sure what the rest of the sentence is going to be. "I know I'm not exactly an easy person to be friends with," He looks at her, and hopes he's conveying something like sincerity. "So just... thanks for not writing me off. Yet, anyways."

"I wouldn't do that, Jackson," She says. This time he knows she's telling the truth. That's just the sort of person Allison is. "I just—" Allison looks out the window again, and fiddles with the hem of her dress, a pretty silver one that Jackson would bet anything Lydia picked out for her. "No one really knows what's been going on with you for the last few months. We've all been worried. And, I mean you sit down with me at lunch one day and say you want to catch up, and then it's the last time I see you for weeks." She turns back and gives him a confused look.

Jackson looks away. "Sorry..." He says. "I've just been dealing with some stuff..."

Allison sighs. "I know, that's what you said three weeks ago. What 'stuff', Jackson? What's going on?"

"It's nothing," Jackson shakes his head. He can feel Allison staring at him, but he looks straight out the window shield. They sit in silence for a minute, and then Jackson says "Have you ever, sort of... had something happen, that completely changed the way you thought and felt about, like, fucking everything?" Jackson rubs his eyes. He's never wanted anything as badly as he wants to get a drink right now. "And it's like, now you have no idea how you're supposed to go on living your life, because you can't do it the way you were doing it before—"

"Because everything is completely different now?" Alison finishes. Jackson looks up at her, and she gives him another tired smile.

"Yeah, exactly."

It's Allison who looks away now. "Yeah, I have." She says quietly. "It's funny how that can happen... how things sneak up on you." She's fiddling with the hem of her dress again. "One day everything's fine, the same as it's always been... and then the next, it's like someone's put a whole new life in front of you, but you don't know if you can be the person that has to live it. And maybe you should have seen it coming, or maybe part of you did... but mostly you still feel like you've had the rug pulled out from under your feet."

Jackson's nodding slowly. His hand seems to move on its own towards the glove compartment, and before he knows it he's screwing the cap off the bottle of bourbon, and taking a good long drink from it. The alcohol burns his throat, and the tension in his chest eases a bit. "Yeah, yeah exactly," Jackson says, nodding again as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "That's exactly how I feel,"

Allison gives him a look, raising her eyebrows high up on her forehead. Jackson glances down at the bottle in his hand, and then back up at Allison. "Uh, do you want some?" He asks, offering it to her. She shakes her head, making a noise that's sort of like a laugh, but a lot more like a scoff. If it had been Lydia with him, she would have pursed her lips and given him a look that would have made him feel like such a pathetic piece of shit that he'd have spent the rest of the night drinking until he felt better. If it had been Derek, Jackson doubted he'd have gotten the bottle to his lips before it had been snatched from his hands and chucked out the window.

The moment he starts thinking about Derek, a knot forms in Jackson's stomach. Partly because he hasn't heard from him since his text message yesterday morning, and partly because he'd promised him he wouldn't drink.

Jackson frowns at the bottle. He's only had one sip, barely anything. He isn't going to get drunk from  _one sip,_ and that was really what Derek had meant, that he didn't want him  _drunk._ So it's fine.

He starts to screw the cap back on, but pauses. Two sips won't get him drunk either. Jackson takes one more swig from the bottle, then puts the cap back on and returns it to the glove compartment. He glances at Allison and receives a tight lipped smile.

They sit there for another moment. "So... do you want to talk about your thing?" Jackson asks. Even as the words are leaving his mouth he has no idea why he's asking. Does he even care? He's honestly not sure. Maybe he's just curious.

Allison shakes her head.  _"No,"_  She says. Jackson's not sure if he's relieved or disappointed. "Do you... do you want to talk about yours?"

" _No,"_ Jackson replies, just as quickly as Allison had. He shakes his head. Allison smiles at him, and Jackson thinks it's a real smile this time, not a tired or annoyed one. It is still sort of sad though.

A car comes roaring past them in the parking lot, and they both turn to see Stiles' jeep come to a squealing halt a few spaces down from them. A moment later, Stiles comes tumbling out, and rushes around to the other side to get the door for Lydia.

Jackson looks at Allison. "Should we go?" He asks. She nods, and they both exit the car. They approach Stiles and Lydia, who seems to be trying to brush the contamination of Stiles' jeep off her dress. Jackson has to smile.

"Smelt like french fries in there," Lydia is muttering under her breath, while swiping angrily at her dress.

"Hey, Lydia," Allison says. She smiles at them. "Stiles,"

Lydia looks up and stops beating her dress. She looks right at Allison and for a second Jackson sees a very potent  _"I am going to kill you"_  look flash in her eyes. It's gone in a split second, and replaced with a practiced smile. "Hello Allison," she says pleasantly. She looks at him, and her smile never waivers. "You look very handsome tonight, Jackson," She says.

"Uh, thanks, Lydia," Jackson says, looking away uncomfortably. "So do you," He cringes slightly, but tries to pass it off as some kind of awkward smile. From the look on Lydia's face, it doesn't work very well.

Jackson considers saying something to Stiles, but he's busy staring at Lydia with his mouth gaping open. Instead Jackson simply offers his arm to Allison, and together they head towards the school.

"So," Allison says, after they're a few feet away from Lydia and Stiles. "You do realize you just told Lydia she looked handsome, right?"

Jackson sighs. "Yes, I do realize that."

Allison's nods. "Good. Just making sure."

Jackson rolls his eyes at her, but says nothing. There's just too much about him and Lydia that he's not emotionally equipped to deal with right now. He knows that there was a time when she was the most important thing in his life. The person he lived and breathed for. He isn't sure when or why it changed, only that it did. He's not sure either of them are to blame, really—or maybe they both are. Maybe somewhere along the way, they just sort of lost sight of what they loved about each other.

Either way, Jackson knows it's too late to get it back now. And even if they could, Jackson doesn't think he'd want to. Not anymore, not since whatever he was doing with Derek had turned into... whatever the fuck it is now.

The dance committee really went all out on the decorations this time, Jackson sees as he and Allison enter the school. There are colourful lights and streamers, and long gauzy curtains that attempt to turn the gym from a place full of sweaty teenagers awkwardly exercising together, into a place full of sweaty teenagers awkwardly dancing together. He says so to Allison. She laughs, but shakes her head.

"A little less cynicism could go a long way, Jackson," Allison says. "I think the gym looks  _nice,_ "

Being at the dance turns out to not be quite as painful as Jackson had thought it would be. It's still not with in the realm of what he would call  _fun,_ but he doesn't exactly want to claw his face off, either. He and Allison spend most of the night with Danny and his new boyfriend, a broad blond guy with ear plugs named Trevor. Trevor seems nice enough, but for reasons Jackson can't quite pinpoint, he hates him immediately. He tries to hide that from Danny though, out of courtesy.

Halfway through the evening Jackson finds himself wrangled into dancing, He tries not to roll his eyes too much at the cheesy slow songs the band plays, and Allison seems to appreciate his effort. The highlight of the evening has to be watching Stiles through a hissy fit in order to get Lydia to dance with him.

That is, it's the highlight until Scott McCall shows up, and everyone in the gym stops what they're doing to watch Coach Finstock shout at him while he dances with Danny.

"I have to hand it to him," Jackson whispers to Allison as Finstock tries to explain that he wasn't yelling at Scott  _because_ he was dancing with Danny. "He's not entirely without game."

"Yeah," Allison agrees, watching Finstock give up after a flustered minute of waving his hands, and insists everyone go back to dancing. Allison smiles across the gym at Scott. It's the most sincere smile he's seem from her all night. "Jackson, do you mind if—"

"Go ahead," Jackson tells her, taking his arms away from her waist. "I'm gonna go watch Danny try to explain this to his date."

Allison thanks him, and walks off towards where Scott is standing on the other side of the dance floor. Jackson watches them for a minute, and then turns and walks out of the gym. He knows he's supposed to stay where everyone else is, but he just wants a few minutes to himself. Just a few minutes of peace, where he doesn't have listen to crappy covers of Owl City or Justin Timberlake.

Students are lingering in the hallway too, so Jackson turns down the hall that leads to the school's back door. The night outside is cool, but it's quiet and the sky is dotted with stars. Jackson makes sure the door is propped open a little so he'll be able to get back in, and then he leans back against the brick wall and shuts his eyes. He wonders what Derek is doing now, and whether or not he's figured out how to deal with Peter yet. It isn't an emergency, but maybe if he sends him a text message, Derek would reply and let him know what was going on.

Jackson opens his eyes, and for a moment, his heart stops.

"Hello, Jackson," Peter says, smiling pleasantly. Jackson doesn't even have time to blink before Peter's hand is around his throat. Jackson sputters and grabs at Peter's wrist, but his grip is like iron. "I know you're scared, but if you calm down and give me what I want, I wont hurt you," Peter's face is close to his, and his eyes glow red. Jackson's arms go limp. "Where's my nephew?" Peter hisses. He loosens his grip on Jackson's throat a little, and Jackson gasps for air.

"W-what?" Jackson sputters.

"Where is  _Derek?_ " Peter repeats, thrusting Jackson back into the wall behind him. Jackson's head hits the brick and darkness swims in front of his eyes. "You were one of the last people to see him. Tell me what you know."

Jackson's mind is reeling, struggling to wrap itself around the question being asked. "Derek's missing? What?"

Peter rolls his eyes, and then tosses Jackson aside. Jackson lands hard on the grass, flat on his back. The air is knocked out of his chest, and the world spins around him. At the back of his throat there's a metallic taste that he hopes isn't blood. Jackson stares up at the sky and the stars for a moment, and it occurs to him that this must be what dying feels like. For some reason, he thinks of the first time he kissed Derek.

"Alright let's try this again," Peter says, somewhere outside Jackson's eyeline. He appears above him a second later, blocking his view of the stars. He looks calm. Jackson feels his heartbeat quicken. "When  _exactly_ was the last time you saw Derek? The night before last?" Peter crouches down beside him, and puts two fingers on Jackson's chin. He tilts Jackson's face towards him. "Answer me, Jackson. It'd be a shame to ruin a face a like yours, but if you don't co-operate with me..." Peter trails the same two fingers down the side of Jackson's face. His touch his gentle, but his hands are ice cold and Jackson jerks away from him. Peter smiles. "Well?"

It takes Jackson a few moments to be able to speak. When he does, his voice is barely more than a croak. "Yesterday morning," He gets out. "Last time... last time I saw him." He coughs, and his mouth tastes of metal.

Peter's face splits into a smile. "Well, isn't that romantic," He says. "You spent the night together, how sweet." Jackson feels his cheeks burn, and his fist clenches a little. Somehow just having Peter know that feels like a violation. "When he left you, did here say where he was going? Do you know who he might have seen after you?" Jackson shakes his head. Peter's face falls. "Well, that's disappointing. I was hoping you'd be a little more useful than that." Peter stands up, and Jackson's vision blurs and doubles, making it seem as though there are two Peters towering above him. Jackson groans and closes his eyes. He hears Peter tell him he can pass out now, and then the world goes black.

* * *

There's hard ground beneath his back. Is it the charred floor of the Hale house? A hand on his face. Derek's? God, please that be it, Jackson prays. Please let it be Derek's bedroom floor, and Derek's hand and Derek's voice calling his name, somewhere very far away. That would be so great. All the rest of it could just be a dream...

"Jackson? Jackson wake up! Jackson what happened?" The voice is closer now, and Jackson groans because that's not Derek's voice. "Good, alright come on Jackson, open your eyes."

Jackson tries to do as the voice tells him, but every movement takes a tortuous amount of effort. He manages to squint a little, and looks up at the face of Stiles Stilinksi, who is once again Not Derek. Stiles' mouth is hanging open, and he runs a hand over his short hair. He looks relieved. "Oh thank god," Stiles says. "Jackson what happened to you?"

"What're you doing out here Stilinski?" Jackson mumbles.

"I was looking for Lydia, who was looking for  _you._ And here you are."

Jackson furrows his brow. His head is pounding and his back is aching, but with Stiles' help he manages to sit up. "You were—what? Lydia was looking for..." A cold hand clenches Jackson's heart. "Lydia came out here? Lydia's—" Jackson thinks he may vomit. "Peter."

"What?" Stiles asks. "Did you say Peter?" Jackson nods. "Peter's the one that did this?" He nods again. Stiles stares at him for a moment, and then scrambles up to his feet. In a flash he's running off across the lawn, shouting Lydia's name. Jackson tries to follow him, but his legs feel like led. It takes him three tries before he manages to stand up.

By the time he gets to the lacrosse field, the damage is already done. Lydia is on the ground, her silver dress smeared with blood. Peter is crouching over her, and Stiles is desperately pleading with him. Jackson stumbles over to them, and falls to his knees beside Stiles. Stiles is shaking, and there's sweat beaded on his forehead. Peter growls and bares his teeth. There's a line of blood dripping down his chin.

Neither of them acknowledge him. Jackson doesn't think he's ever felt his heart pound this hard before.

"Tell me how to find Derek," Peter is saying, running a clawed finger down Lydia's face.

"I don't know that!" Stiles shouts, desperation ringing in his voice. "How would I know that!"

"Because you're the clever one, aren't you?" Peter's eyes flick towards Jackson for a moment, as if to stress his own shortcomings. "And because deception has a particularly acrid scent, Stiles." Stiles eyes' shift between Lydia and Peter. Peter raises his eyebrows. "Tell me the truth, Stiles. Or I will rip her apart."

Jackson sees Stiles' nostrils flare, and his eyes dart again between Lydia and Peter. "Look I don't know okay?" Stiles stammers. "I swear to god I have  _no idea,_ "

Peter looks at him for a moment, and then his face contorts in fury. " _Tell me!_ " He bellows. Stiles cringes and shuts his eyes, and Jackson feels his head begin to spin.

"Okay okay okay!" Stiles shouts. "Look, I think—" Stiles breaks off, and Jackson can hear the erratic sound of his breathing. "I think he knew,"

"Knew _what_?"

"Derek, I think he knew he was gonna be caught," Stiles says. Jackson furrows his brow at the word  _caught._ And then he feels something awful click in his mind. Derek is missing. Peter is looking for him. Something's  _happened_  to him—someone's taken him. Jackson knows who before the words leave Peter's bloody lips.

"By the Argents." Peter says. "And?"

"Last night, Scott—he was at Derek's, at your house—they got shot, and I think he took Scott's phone."

" _Why?"_

"They all have GPS now," Stiles explains. He sounds calmer now. Angry, but calm. Somehow that scares Jackson even more. "So if he still has it, and if it's still on," Stiles looks up Peter and clenches his jaw. "You can find him."

Peter looks Stiles over for a moment, and smiles. "See, I said you were the clever one," He says, standing up. "Come on, let's go."

Stiles shakes his head. "No, I'm not just letting you leave her here,"

Peter takes a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and begins to casually wipe the blood off his mouth. "You don't have a choice, Stiles, you're coming with me. Jackson will take Lydia to the hospital, won't you Jackson?"

It takes Jackson a minute to acknowledge that he's being addressed. "What? No, I—I have to find Derek," Jackson says, stumbling to his feet. "The Argents could kill him, I can't—" He shakes his head, not capable of accepting that. Derek dying isn't an option.

Stiles is still kneeling on the ground next to Lydia. "Just kill me, I don't care anymore."

Peter sighs, and tucks the handkerchief back into his pocket. He places two fingers under Stiles chin, and slowly brings him to his feet. "You're coming with me," Peter says, cupping Stiles' chin in his hand. He glances at Jackson. "You're going with her. End of story."

Both Stiles and Jackson begin to protest at the same time, and then they turn and glare at each other. Jackson is furious at Stiles for refusing to help find Derek, and he knows Stiles is just as mad at him for wasting time getting Lydia to the hospital. Their eyes lock on each others for a moment, and then Jackson grits his teeth and crouches down next to Lydia's unconscious body. He scoops her up in his arms.

"I'll make sure she's okay," He says, making sure he has a firm grip on her. She's so light, it's scary. As though she's some sort of doll. "You find Derek."

Slowly, Stiles nods. He and Peter turn and walk off into the darkness, and Jackson runs back to the school with Lydia in his arms, shouting for help.


	12. Alpha

Lydia is going to be fine. She is.

That's not what the doctors are saying, but Jackson knows she will be. She's tough, Jackson knows. Even if she doesn't look it right now, lying in the hospital bed with tubes in her arms and a mask over her face. He knows it.

Jackson was the first to get to the hospital—he'd followed along behind the ambulance—but he isn't alone for very long. Lydia's parents, the Sheriff and a few other police officers all arrive barely seconds after him. Allison appears not long after, but she says nothing and leaves almost immediately. She's the odd man out. Everyone else who arrives has something to say—actually, shout.

The first one to shout at him was Lydia's father. He'd shouted that Jackson should have protected her, that it should be him in the hospital instead of her. Jackson didn't disagree. He knows he's failed Lydia, not just tonight, but for a long time. Lydia's father didn't shout for very long, because he started to cry and had to go away. Jackson was thankful for that, because he'd almost started to cry too, and he didn;t want anyone to see that.

After that Sheriff Stilinksi shouted at him for a while, demanding to know where the hell Jackson was and why he didn't protect her. Jackson got mad and told him it was  _Stiles_ who'd taken Lydia to the dance, not him.

When Stiles showed up, the Sheriff shouted at him too. Now they're out in the hallway, shouting at each other. Jackson doesn't know about what, except that apparently Scott McCall is missing. Jackson never thought he'd actually miss that guy, or wish he was around, but he does now because Scott is the only one who can actually deal with all this werewolf shit. The world must really be going to hell.

Eventually the Sheriff finishes yelling at Stiles, and Jackson finally gets the chance to talk to him alone.

"Did you find him?" Jackson asks, pulling Stiles aside. "Is he alright? Did they hurt him? Because I will fucking  _kill_ every single one of them—"

"No, I didn't find him," Stiles says, rolling his eyes. Jackson gapes at him. "I mean, I tracked Scott's phone and found his location. Peter's going there now."

"What? You let Peter go on his own?"

"I didn't  _let_ Peter do anything, dude," Stiles snaps. "Wanna see what he did to my keys, so I couldn't follow him?" Stiles rummages around in his pocket for a moment and then pulls out a keychain with three bent keys on it. "Look, you see?"

"We'll take my car then, come on," Jackson grabs Stiles' arm and tries to pull him towards the elevator, but Stiles yanks his arm away. "Stiles, please! Derek is in serious trouble and right now the only help coming for him is the psycho who killed his sister. I can't—he  _needs me—_ "

"Boys!" Stiles and Jackson both jump, and Jackson turns around to see an angry looking nurse in pink scrubs glaring at them from down the hall. "I don't know what your problem is but might I remind you that you are in a  _hospital,_ " She snaps. "Show a little respect, or I'll have security escort you out."

Jackson glances down at his shoes. "Uh, sorry... ma'am," He mumbles. He wonders well the hell she was when everyone  _else_ was shouting.

The nurse gives him a look, and then disappears down the hall. Jackson turns back to Stiles, and makes himself keep his voice low. "Look, Scott's missing too, remember?" He says. "What if they figured out he's... y'know, what he is... and they got them? He could be with Derek right now. We have to go."

Stiles glares at him for a moment, and says nothing. He glances behind Jackson, at Lydia's hospital room, and then grits his teeth. "Did you bring the porsche?" He asks.

Jackson blinks a few times, surprised. "Yeah," He says, digging in his pocket for a moment. He takes out his keys, which Stiles immediately grabs from his hands.

"Good," Stiles says. "I'll drive." The tone of his voice dares Jackson to protest. Jackson doesn't. Without Stiles he has no way of knowing where Derek is being held, not to mention how to go about actually getting him out. Peter was right about Stiles being the clever one. All Jackson is is just a pretty face. Stiles is the one that will know what to do, and letting him wreck his car (and Jackson just  _knows_ that the car is going to get wrecked, he knows it) is a miniscule price to pay for his help.

The plan is to get out of the hospital and to where ever Derek is as fast as possible, but on the way out Jackson and Stiles hit a roadblock in the form of Chris Argent and two other hunters.

"Boys," Chris says. There's a small smile on his face and while it's not quite as terrifying as Peter's, it's not exactly comforting, either. "I was wondering if you could tell me where Scott McCall is?"

"Scott McCall?" Stiles asks, fiddling with Jackson's keys. "Um, haven't seen him since the dance. Jackson, you?"

Chris shifts his attention to Jackson, who looks back and forth between him and Stiles with slight panic. He hasn't seen Scott either, but somehow the words are stuck in his throat. "Um... I..."

Beside him, Stiles lets out a low sigh.  _"For the love of God..."_ He says under his breath. Jackson feels his face flush.

Next thing he knows, Chris Argent has grabbed them both by their collars and thrown them into an empty hospital. As he locks the door, Jackson can feel Stiles giving him a look that says that he's going to kill him. If they don't wind up dying tonight, that is.

* * *

One of the other hunters holds Jackson back while Chris Argent slams Stiles into a wall and shouts at him. Stiles snaps back sarcastic replies and refuses to show any fear. Jackson cannot fathom how he's doing that;  _he's_  freaking out. Thinking about all the  _guns_ he know Chris owns and wondering if he'd brought any of them with him. He wouldn't shoot them, would he? Jackson has no idea. Considering Beacons Hills tendency to attract psychopaths, it doesn't seem all that unlikely.

As Jackson listens to Chris and Stiles shout at each other, he begins to get the idea that he's missing something. Something big, actually. Bigger the fact that apparently Stiles has had to chain Scott to the  _radiator_ before, to keep from getting  _killed_ (which is pretty fucking big, actually. He's starting to think maybe this whole werewolf thing isn't as glamourous as it sounds).

The shouting stops, and Chris and Stiles stare at each other for a moment. The hunter holding Jackson glances at his comrade on the other side of the room, and they raise their eyebrows. At least Jackson isn't the only one who has no idea what's going on.

Jackson has most definitely missed something really fucking important, because a moment later Chris steps back from Stiles, and says "get out of here." Then he motions to the other hunters, and the three of them leave.

Stiles collapses back against the wall and puts his head in his hands. "Jesus fucking christ," he mutters. Jackson just stares at him with an open mouth, not sure what to do or say. Stiles gives himself a shake, and takes his hands away from his eyes. "Alright, we better get going."

Jackson follows Stiles out of the hospital and down to the parking garage. It's only when they're in his car and screeching down the pavement that he finally remembers how to talk again. "Stiles, what the  _hell_ was that?"

"What was what?" Stiles asks, staring straight out the window shield. There's a hard look on his face, and his knuckles are bright white on the steering wheel.

"What was what? Are you _freaking_ kidding me? You, and Allison's Dad, what the hell were you two talking about? What  _code?_ Who broke it? What does this have to do with Derek's fire?  _What the fuck is going on?_ " Jackson looks out the window and notices where they're headed. "Are we going to the school?"

"Yup,"

Jackson blinks in disbelief. "Derek's being held at the  _school?_ "

"Nope,"

"Then  _why the fuck are we going there_? Stiles—"

"Weapons, Jackson," Stiles interrupts. "Trust me, we'll need them."

"Weapons?" Jackson furrows his brow and stares at Stiles. "What the hell kind of weapons do they have at  _school?_ "

"Self igniting Molotov cocktail," Stiles says, in a plain, monotone voice. "She might be in a coma, but Lydia Martin is going to save the day."

* * *

By the time Jackson and Stiles arrive at the Hale house (Stiles can't explain why they'd be keeping Derek  _at his own house_ but he assures him that's where he is) all hell has broken loose. Jackson sees Allison crouching over the body of her father. He doesn't know if he's dead or unconscious. He sees Scott fighting the huge wolf-like monster that he knows is Peter Hale. This is the first clear look Jackson's ever really gotten at Peter like this, and it's horrible. The awful glowing red eyes that he knows, mangled fangs protruding from thick pink gums. It's so much worse than any nightmare he's ever had.

Even more terrifying than the things he sees on the Hale's front lawn is what he  _doesn't_ see; Derek. Derek isn't there, and Jackson is the most frightened he's been all night long.

Scott and Peter are facing off against each other, and Peter growls and is about to lunge at Scott when Stiles honks the cars horn. Peter's attention is drawn to them and Jackson's eyes get wide as those awful red eyes look in their direction. But Stiles is ready for him, and he pulls his arm back and flings Lydia's cocktail at him.

Peter catches it.

Jackson hears Stiles says "Oh, damn," as he stares with wide eyes and an open mouth at the beaker in the Alpha's hand. Jackson is sure that they're all doomed, but then Scott shouts Allisons name and tosses her a bow. Allison grabs it and sends an arrow flying at the beaker, causing it to shatter and ignite, just like Lydia had said it would.

Jackson looks down at the bomb in his hand, and then throws his too. It shatters against him, and fire blankets Peter's body. He stumbles backwards, howling in pain. The smell of burnt hair and smoking flesh fills the air, and Jackson thinks he may vomit. He knows who Peter is and what he's done, knows that he's killed people and would keep on doing so if he wasn't stopped, but as he watches Peter fall to the ground, blackened, bloodied and back in human form, he can't help but feel horrified at what he's just done. What they've all done.

Stiles is staring at Peter with a look that's more relief than horror, and Allison and Scott are actually staring at  _each other._ Smouldering werewolves can wait, they have googly eyes to make.

Scott is on all fours as Allison approaches him, and kneels down in front of him. It occurs to Jackson that this is probably the first time Allison's seen Scott all wolfed out (come to think of it, this is the first time Jackson has too. It's almost impressive that even as a werewolf, McCall still looks like a huge dork). She kisses him, and Scott slowly shifts back into human form.

Jackson is thinking he's definitely about to vomit, when he looks up and sees Derek standing in the front doorway.

Somehow Jackson manages to keep the contents of his stomach down, and he half runs and half stumbles towards Derek, tripping up the front steps as though he were drunk. He sort of feels like he is.

Derek opens his mouth to say something but Jackson grabs two fists full of his jacket and pulls Derek towards him, slamming their mouths together with enough force to bruise. Derek is  _alive,_ here's he in front of him and  _alive_ and alright and Jackson's thanking every god who's name he can remember from every and any religion he can think of.

"You stupid fucking idiot," Jackson mumbles, as he goes from kissing Derek's mouth to kissing his ear and his neck and all over his face. "Give me all these rules for keeping myself out of trouble then go and get yourself kidnapped, you idiot..." Derek's hands are on his hips, under his suit jacket, and his fingers dig almost painfully into his sides as Derek kisses him back. He takes that as a sign that Derek is just as happy to see him.

The pressure of Derek's fingers eases up, and he feels Derek pull away from him. Jackson immediately tightens his grip on Derek's jacket. "No, no moving. You're not going anywhere. Stay." Jackson tells him. Derek just gives him a look, and Jackson thinks it's supposed to be annoyed, but Jackson can see too much exhaustion and sadness behind it for it to be effective.

Derek's eyes move past Jackson to look at something behind him, and Jackson turns to see what. He follows Derek's gaze to Peter's charred body, and sees it give a painful jerk. He realizes that somehow Peter is still alive. "I have to finish this," Derek says quietly. Jackson's fingers stay firm on his jacket. He doesn't want to let Derek go, to walk across the lawn and kill his last living family member. It's not fair. "Jackson..."

Jackson sighs quietly and closes his eyes. It's different this time, quiet and soft instead of stern and controlling, but still Jackson loves the way Derek says his name. It makes him feel like he's something that belongs to him. He really likes that. Probably because he's never really belonged to anyone before.

Jackson feels his fingers loosen, and slowly and reluctantly he lets go of Derek.

Derek walks off the porch, and slowly approaches the only thing that remains of his family. He stands over him, and looks down at Peter's body. It's still smoking.

"Wait!" Scott shouts, stumbling over with a panicked look in his eyes. "You said the cure comes from one that bit you," Jackson sees Derek close his eyes, and he wishes he had something to throw at Scott to get him to shut up.

He doesn't, so instead he just snaps "Shut up, Scott."

Scott turns to Jackson. "If Derek does this, I'm dead," He says. He gestures back towards Allison. "Her father, her family—what am I supposed to do?"

Derek is silent. On the ground, Peter's body begins to shake, and Jackson realizes he's trying to speak. His voice is raspy and dry, and blood behinds to trickle out from the burns around his throat and mouth as it moves. "You've... already... decided..." Peter chokes out. " _I_   _can smell it on you,_ " Peter's eyes glow red and his body shakes, as though he's trying to shift one last time. Before he can, Derek raises a clawed hand, and as Scott shouts for him to stop, he brings it down across Peter's throat. It mets a wet slurping noise, and blood spurts across the lawn. Peter's body gives one final twitch, and Jackson watches the red fade from his eyes. Then he's still.

Scott's mouth is hanging open in horror, and Allison has her face buried against her fathers shoulder. Derek straightens up and turns around, and Jackson feels his stomach drop. Derek's eyes are bright,  _monstrous_ red, and when he speaks his voice is deep and guttural.

" _I'm the Alpha now,"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is an utmost regret of mine that I couldn't put in everyone's reactions to Derek and Jackson kissing. The story is from Jackson's POV, and at the time he was way too focused on Derek to realistically give a shit about anyone else. It makes me sad, because I bet the looks on Chris and Allison's faces were fucking hilarious.
> 
> Next chapter=final chapter.


	13. Catastrophe

Jackson lies on his bed and stares up at the ceiling. It's late in the evening, but not nearly late enough to justify going to sleep. There's nothing good on TV, and the events of the night before have left him far too addled to read a book. So he stares at the ceiling, and tries not to think too much.

It's more difficult than he would have expected. No matter how hard he tries, his mind continues calling up images from the night before; Lydia in her silver dress, lying bloody and lifeless on the field; Peter's fingers under Stiles' chin, gently lifting him to his feet; Peter burning, screaming; Derek. Derek alive when he'd thought he'd lost him, Derek standing over Peter's body, Derek turning around with eyes the colour of blood—

There's a noise at his window, and Jackson nearly jumps out of his skin. He shoots up off his bed, and his throat closes up when he sees him there. What's that expression again? _Speak of the devil, and he shall appear._

Derek is crouched on the other side of the glass, tapping his knuckles lightly against it. Jackson feels a strange mixture of relief and dread at the sight of him. He isn't sure why.

"Jackson, let me in," Derek says. He has a big grin on his face, and Jackson wonders if that's what's responsible for the dread he's feeling. The smile is predatory, and reminds him far too much of Peter.

Jackson opens the window, and Derek jumps into his room and immediately grabs Jackson and pulls him in for a kiss. It's open mouthed, long and rough and by the end of it Jackson is practically squirming away. Derek doesn't seem to notice. "My house is still crawling with cops," Derek says when he finally pulls back. "Do you mind if I crash here for a few days?"

Jackson shakes his head. "Of course not," He says. Derek looks at him, and the smile begins to fade. Jackson swallows.

"Is something wrong?" Derek asks, furrowing his brow. "Are you okay?"

 _No,_ Jackson thinks.  _Not even a little._ He doesn't say that. "I don't know." He says instead. "Are  _you_ okay _?_ " Derek looks surprised. "I mean, are you going to be all weird now?"

Derek raises one eyebrow. "What do you mean, 'now'?"

"You  _know_ what I mean," Jackson folds his arms across his black wife beater, and tries to ignore the slightly amused and very annoying expression on Derek's face. "Now that you're  _'THE ALPHA NOW',_ now. _"_ Jackson says in deep voice, a poor imitation of the way Derek had sounded the night before.

Derek looks at Jackson for a moment, and then laughs. He reaches out a hand to place on Jackson's shoulder, but Jackson shoves it away. "Jackson—"

"You know, after all the fucked up  _shit_ I've been through the last few days, you laughing at me is  _exactly_ what I needed right now, thank you—"

Derek grabs Jackson's shoulders and pulls him in. "Jackson, this is a  _good thing,_ " He says. Jackson can feel Derek's fingers digging painfully into his arms, and he's not so sure. "I have so much more  _power_  now—and I don't just mean being faster, or stronger," Derek's grip on him becomes harder, and Jackson winces.

Jackson grits his teeth. "You're hurting me,"

Surprise flickers across Derek's face once more, for just a second. Then he smirks. "I thought you liked that," As he leans in and brushes his lips against Jackson's neck, Jackson feels his grip loosen.

A shiver runs down Jackson's spine as Derek whispers against his neck. "Jackson, you're not listening to me," He pulls back and looks at Jackson. There's a look in his eyes Jackson hasn't seen before. Something dark and electric... something that's almost like excitement.

Jackson's spent a lot of time over the past few days feeling afraid, but this is the first time in a long time he's felt afraid of Derek. " _I'm_ the alpha—"

Jackson's heart skips a beat whenever he hears that word. It's still too closely associated with  _death_ and  _terror_ in his mind. He doesn't want that to be Derek. "Yeah I  _know,_ I got that memo last night and if you keep saying it I might start doing shots—"

Derek raises his voice and speaks over Jackson. "Jackson I can turn you," Jackson's words die on his lips. "Do I have your attention now?"

Jackson can feel his mouth hanging open. He stares at Derek. "What?"

Derek smirks slightly. "The bite," Derek leans in and kisses Jackson's neck again. "I can give it to you," He tilts his head down and presses another kiss against Jackson's bare shoulder.

Jackson's mind goes numb as he watches Derek sink down to his knees in front of him. He feels Derek's fingers slide up under his wife beater, pushing the fabric up to expose his skin.

"If you still want it, of course..." Derek trails his fingers along Jackson's skin, then follows with his mouth, brushing his lips over the side of his stomach, just above his hip. Jackson's heart is beating erratically inside his chest, and Jackson knows Derek can hear it. He probably thinks it's excitement that's making his heart beat so fast.

And... it is, Jackson thinks. It must be. Because this is what he wants. What he's wanted all along. Power, strength. To no longer feel afraid. Inferior. Worthless.

Derek's eyes turn red, and his mouth opens to reveal long razor sharp fangs. Jackson's heart pounds harder. He knows it's not excitement.

This isn't what he wants.

Jackson's throat feels thick and his words almost get lost in it. "I don't," He whispers. Derek pauses. "I—I don't want it..."

Derek leans back, and his fangs retract. His blood red eyes flick up to meet Jackson's. "You don't?" Jackson shakes his head. Derek blinks a few times and slowly his eyes fade back to their usual colour. He gets back up to his feet. "Since when?" Derek's face is hard and his expression difficult to read, but he doesn't sound angry.

The pounding in his chest slows. What he feels isn't quite relief, but it isn't gut wrenching terror, either. He counts that as an improvement.

Derek still looks at him, expecting an answer.

"I don't know," Jackson sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. He looks away, trying to get a grip on his thoughts so he give Derek some kind of explanation. He feels like he owes him that much, even if he's not even entirely sure if he has one.

There's a part of him that feels like he's making a mistake. A desperate, angry voice in his head shouting that he  _needs_ the bite, that it will make everything better. Telling him he's an idiot for turning it down.

"Derek, I just... I don't know if you've noticed, but things aren't going too well for me, right now." Jackson squeezes his eyes shut for a second, then forces them back open and makes himself look at Derek. "My average in school is a D and I'm one wrong move away from being kicked off the lacrosse team. The only friends that still talk to me are Allison and Danny. I can't even remember the last time I had a conversation with my parents that lasted longer than two minutes."

Jackson takes a deep breath. "I just can't deal with more werewolf stuff on top of all that. Everything's falling apart—everything's  _fallen_ apart. I'm fucked up, and I've fucked up so much the last few months... and I need to deal with that."

Derek looks away. "Oh," he says.

Jackson expects him to say more, but nothing else follows. His face is absolutely blank, impossible to read. Jackson stares at him, determined to pick up  _some_ clue as to what Derek's feeling. Is he feeling anything? He just offered Jackson the bite, he must have  _wanted_ to turn him. Is he angry? Annoyed?  _Slightly put-off?_

Any other time, Jackson would have rolled his eyes and snapped something sarcastic at Derek. Demanded he say something more expressive than " _oh._ " Told him he was being stupid, or annoying.

Somehow, Jackson doesn't think he can this time. But they can't just  _stand here_ forever either.

Jackson swallows, and tries to think of something to say. "Derek—"

"It's fine, Jackson," Derek interrupts. He looks back up at Jackson, and Jackson can see the electricity in his eyes is dulled. He doesn't know what that means. "I get it, really. It's a lot, I know it is. And you've got a lot to deal with..." Derek smiles, and if there was anything he could have done to throw Jackson off even more, that's it. The smile is forced, and cold. It doesn't touch his eyes.

Derek puts a hand on Jackson's shoulder. Jackson just stares at him. "I want you to know, the offer is on the table, if you change your mind. It won't expire." Jackson's thoughts are reeling, but they're interrupted when Derek leans in and kisses him. Jackson is surprised, and so  _fucking confused_ , but that doesn't stop him from kissing Derek back.

Derek's mouth is hard and the kiss is long and deep, but this time Jackson has no desire to get away. The longer it lasts the more Jackson can feel all that fear and confusion just... drifting away. Maybe things can actually be okay. Even if Derek's eyes are red and he's more monstrous than ever, maybe it'll be alright. So long as he's still Derek... maybe the rest doesn't matter.

Derek pulls back, and gives Jackson that cold, impersonal smile. "Goodbye, Jackson." He turns away, towards Jackson's window.

 _Goodbye—_  Jackson blinks a few times, and furrows his brow. "Wait, what?" Derek pauses with his hand on the window sill. "Why goodbye?  _No._ " Jackson steps towards Derek and grabs his arm. "Not goodbye."

A lump forms in Jackson's throat when Derek turns around with red eyes. For a second his hand goes limp and lets go of Derek's jacket, but he forces himself to get another grip on it. He swallows.

"Jackson, what the hell?" Derek demands. Now he sounds angry, but also a little confused. Well, it's good to know Jackson's not the only one.

"Wait you're seriously asking  _me_ what the hell?" Jackson's dumfounded. "What the hell?"

Derek throws his arms up in frustration, knocking Jackson's hand aside. "You  _just_ told me you didn't want to deal with anymore werewolf stuff. What am I—"

Now Jackson gets it. "I didn't mean  _you,_ you fucking idiot!" He shouts, then cringes because there's no way his parents didn't hear that. He waits a moment, but no one calls up.

Derek glares at him, his eyes still burning red. He manages to keep his voice low when he speaks, but Jackson can tell he's having trouble. "I don't know if you've noticed, but 'werewolf stuff' and 'me,' kind of the same thing."

"When I said I couldn't deal with more werewolf stuff I meant the kind of stuff I'd have to deal with if I let you turn me, you asshole." Jackson sneers. "Like figuring out how to control myself, and having Allison's fucking family on my back, and whatever other bullshit McCall is always whining about. I didn't mean  _you. How_  could you think I meant you?"

Derek's jaw is tight. "Wouldn't it just be easier, if..." Derek swallows, and his red eyes flicker towards the floor. "So long as you're with me, there will always be werewolf stuff, Jackson. It will always be hard—"

"Yeah, I know that," Jackson says, rolling his eyes. "And obviously things would be easier if I could just cut out all that crap, but I don't really thinks that's an option, anymore." Jackson makes to Derek's hand, but halfway through he changes his mind. Instead his hand just sort of brushes against Derek's, timid and non-committal. Jackson glances down, and tries not to look embarrassed. "I mean, I'm sort of involved already, I guess."

That's a stupid way to put it, but he'll sort out the semantics later. Semantics have always been his friend.

"Yeah, but Jackson you don't have to be—"

"Involved with  _you._ " Jackson interrupts. "I meant.. involved with you..." He cringes slightly. Involved was definitely a stupid word. Semantics have betrayed him.

Jackson looks up, and forces himself to make eye contact with Derek. He's relieved to see Derek's eyes are hazely-green again. "With me?" Jackson gives a small nod, and silently curses the circumstances that have led to them having this conversation. Fucking Peter and Kate Argent. He wishes they were both alive, so he could kill them again for putting him in this position.

The hair on the back of Jackson's neck stands up as Derek takes his hand, and gives it a firm squeeze. "I guess we're involved then."

Jackson swallows, and glances down at their entwined hands. He changes his mind. Maybe this position isn't such a bad one. He ceases attempting to mentally resurrect Peter and Kate. If there is indeed a hell, they have his permission to continue burning, undisturbed.

When Jackson looks back up, Derek puts his other hand on the back of his neck, and pulls him in for another kiss.

To make certain they're clear about this kiss, and that it isn't leading up to anything resembling a good-bye, Jackson grabs the front of Derek's jacket and drags him down onto the bed. Then he wraps his arms around Derek's neck and pulls him closer.

Jackson knows what comes next. He can practically taste it on his tongue, and see it behind his eyelids; the movement of their mouthes quickening, becoming more frenzied as hands move and pull and tear at clothing until there's none left. He can hear his breath shortening, and all the moans and pleads and sounds of wanting. He knows how Derek will kiss him, and tease him and moan so quietly, but Jackson will hear it all the same, hear the sound of his wanting.

He knows what's coming, and he can feel his body aching in anticipation.

Derek pulls back quickly to shed his jacket, and tosses it onto the floor of Jackson's bedroom. He removes his shirt as well. As Jackson watches him pull it up over his head, he remembers the other jacket, hanging in his closet. He'd been debating about whether or not give it back. Derek hadn't given it to him to keep, he knew, but when Jackson put his face to it he could breath in Derek's smell... and he liked that too much to willingly part with.

Once Derek's shirt's been tossed aside as well, Jackson reaches for him once more. He wraps his arms back around his neck even tighter this time and pulls Derek on top of him, burying his face into the crook of his neck. Jackson breathes in, and for a minute just holds onto him, and takes comfort in the familiar smell of him, and the weight of Derek's body on top of his.

"Jackson, is something wrong?"

"Mmm?"

"Is everything okay?" Derek pulls back, breaking Jackson's grip on him, and raises an eyebrow.

"What? Sure, I guess... why?" Jackson's hands seems to move on their own, back onto Derek's arms. One slides up into Derek's hair, brushing it back gently.

"Well... you're sniffing me, for one," Derek says. Jackson's cheeks burn a little. "And another, we're not... I mean... you're not..." Now Jackson raises his eyebrows, and Derek sighs. "Usually you'd have half of your clothes off by now, and mine. So, is something wrong? I know you said I could stay here, and I thought... but we don't have to do anything, if you don't want to."

Jackson raises one eyebrow higher. He lets his arms drop to his sides. "You think something's wrong because I didn't immediately start fucking your brains out?" Derek sighs again, and hangs his head. "Is that what you're getting at?"

"Don't put words in my mouth, Jackson, I just—"

"—no, apparently the only thing I'm allowed to put in your mouth is my—" Derek puts his hand over Jackson's mouth, cutting him off.

"Stop that," Derek commands. Jackson glares at him. "You know that's not how I meant it. I only meant that when we start fooling around, you're usually a more... active participant. So if you don't  _want_ to fuck, we don't  _have_ to." Derek removes his hand from Jackson's mouth. "Okay? That's all I was saying."

Jackson sighs, and rubs at his eyes. "It's... it's not that I don't  _want_ to. I do," He takes his hand away from his eyes, and looks at Derek. "Really, I do. I'm just... distracted."

"By what?"

"Oh gee, I don't know," Jackson says, "Let me think about that for a minute—how about the fucking horror movie I lived through last night? How about the fact that my ex-girlfriend is in the fucking ICU because your crazy fucking werewolf uncle almost ripped her throat out? Or how I had to carry her bloody, unconscious bod-d —" Jackson breaks off, clenching his jaw and turning his face away from Derek. Not because he was about to cry, obviously. He is not going to cry.

But if he does, he doesn't want Derek to see it.

"Jackson..." Jackson feels Derek's fingers brush his cheek, and he jerks away from him. "Come on—"

"No, shut up. You're an asshole, I hate you." Jackson squeezes his eyes shut, because fuck he's crying. This is exactly what he's been trying to avoid all fucking day.

Derek touches his face again, and this time Jackson lets him. He presses his palm against Jackson's cheek, and Jackson leans in to his touch. He feels Derek kiss his forehead, and he takes in a deep breath. Jackson opens his eyes, and blink away the tears. "I thought you were going to die," He whispers. "I was so fucking scared..."

All the fights gone out of him again, and when Derek opens his arms up to him, Jackson all but falls into them. "I know," Derek mumbles, closing his arms around Jackson. "Me too."

There's more Jackson wants to say, but he's afraid of what will come out of his mouth if he opens it again. So he presses his faces against Derek's bare chest, and says nothing.

Derek strokes his hair, and kisses his forehead again. He says nothing as well.

The silence isn't uncomfortable. In fact it's the opposite. Jackson thinks he could fall asleep like this, lying against Derek's chest and breathing in the scent of Derek's skin, comfortable and comforted. Jackson thinks he could live the rest of his life like this.

A knot ties itself in Jackson's chest, and the blanket of comfort and warmth he'd been wrapping himself up in slips a little. There's something wrong with situation, he realizes.

Jackson lifts his chin and looks up at Derek. He's staring off at the wall, still absently stroking Jackson's hair. He thinks about the look Derek had had in his eyes when he'd shown up at his window, and the dangerous smile he'd worn on his face. He looks calm now, but Jackson knows better than anyone how deceptive Derek's face can be. He might look calm and impassive, but Jackson knows what's under there because he's seen it. And not just rage and hate, but pain and grief and guilt... Derek's showed him that before, and let Jackson comfort him.

" _My house is still crawling with cops, do you mind if I crash here for a few days?"_

Jackson is an idiot. He's not the one who needs comforting right now.

"Derek..." Jackson sits up a little, slowly extracting himself for Derek's arms.

"Hmm?" Derek blinks a few times, pulling himself away from whatever thoughts he'd just been lost it. At this point, Jackson would have traded in his Porsche to know what those thoughts were. "What?" Derek gives him a questioning look, and Jackson purses his lips.

He's not entirely sure how this comforting stuff is supposed to work. What is he supposed to say to him?  _Hey bro, it sucks that you had to kill your crazy-ass psycho uncle because he murdered a bunch of people, including your sister, and was probably going to murder everyone else in town if you didn't. Bummer, right?_ Fuck.

Jackson can feel Derek looking at him, and so in an attempt to distract from the fact that he's just sitting there uselessly, Jackson slides over to Derek's side and slowly puts his arm around him. Derek looks at him, his eyebrows knit tightly together on his forehead. "Jackson, I don't mean to sound like a broken record but is everything okay?"

Jackson hesitates for a moment. "Well... no, not really." He admits. "I mean, everything is pretty fucked up right now, isn't it?" Derek doesn't disagree, but he continues staring intently at Jackson, who distracts himself with running his fingers through the hair above Derek's nape. Jackson's not sure, but he think's he sees Derek's brow unfurrow a bit. "I guess I... I just wanted to say... I'm sorry." He makes himself look Derek. "About Peter, and... and about your sister and just... everything."

"None of that's your fault, Jackson."

"Yeah, I  _know_ that, that's not why I'm sorry. I'm just sorry that it happened, to you. And I wish I could do something, to make things better for you." Another thought occurs to him. "And none of it's  _your_ fault, either."

Derek looks away at that. Now that Jackson's no longer in front of him, he's sitting with his knees pulled his knees up in front of his chest. He rests his arms on them, and stares off across Jackson's room. "That's not entirely true..."

"Don't be stupid, it's true," Jackson insists, pulling Derek's face back towards him. "It  _wasn't_ your fault. It was—"

"Jackson, we don't have to talk about this," Derek interrupts. "I mean I appreciate it, but we don't have to."

"I  _want_ to talk about it," He says. "I mean, I don't  _want_ to, but... if  _you_ want to talk about it, I want to be the person you know you can talk about it with."

Derek's mouth opens a little and then closes without emitting a sound. Other than that he makes no response, and the silence sends a self conscious prickle running down Jackson's spine. His words just seem to hang there between them.

Derek looks away again.

 _He doesn't know what to say,_ Jackson realizes. He feels his face heating up again.  _It was too much. Too much sentiment._ He's freaked Derek out.

 _Quick, take it back!_ whispers a panicked voice in his head.  _Tell him you didn't mean it! Say_  something!

For once, lies fail him. Not one comes to mind. At least, not one that would sound the slightest bit convincing. Worse than that, Jackson doesn't even want to take it back. Even if he thought he could. Even if it's awkward and embarrassing. He  _wants_ Derek to know that he's here for him, for whatever he needs or wants.

Jackson has no idea how this happened. Or  _when_ it happened. Or what the hell he was doing  _while_ it was happening.

"Do you ever miss the way things used to be?" Jackson blurts. "Between us, I mean. When it was just... random hate-sex? It was a lot simpler then…" It hadn't seemed simple at the time, of course. At the time it had seemed like a horrible, complicated, preserve mess. But looking back… not so much.

Still, Jackson can't feel any pangs of longing for those days, either. He'd been so miserable, so full of hate. Mostly for himself.

Does that mean that he's any less miserable now? Jackson's not sure.

"I never hated you," Derek turns back to him, his brow furrowed. "Did you really hate me?"

"Oh, uh..." Jackson's never really thought about it. "No, I guess not. I was afraid of you though, for a while."

Derek snorts. "Yeah, I know that, Jackson."

"But not anymore."

"You were afraid when I first came here tonight," Derek reminds him. "I could practically smell it..."

"Yeah, because you were being  _weird,_ " Jackson moves behind Derek, and wraps his arms around his neck. He kisses the side of Derek's mouth. "It freaked me out." Derek's brow is still furrowed, and he kisses that too until it eases.

Derek sighs, and closes his eyes. "I think there's a part of myself that liked it, too..." He says quietly. Jackson can feel Derek's shoulders a sag a little under his arms.

Jackson squeezes him tighter, and kisses Derek's neck. "I think there's a part of myself that likes that you liked it," He whispers. He bites lightly at Derek's skin, then lifts his head up and grins at him.

Derek shakes his head. "There is definitelysomething wrong with you," He says. It's not the first time he's told him that—and it probably won't be the last—but it is the first time it's sounded affectionate.

"There's something wrong with  _me?_ " Jackson asks, feigning offense. "Are you kidding? You have more issues than a magazine stand." Derek rolls his eyes. "No, I'm serious. You are a  _fucked up_ guy. You should really see someone about it. A therapist, or maybe an exorcist."

Derek leans back against him, and tilts his head back so it's resting on Jackson's shoulder. "I thought I had you for that," He says. "To talk to, not to perform an exorcism."

Jackson blinks a few times. "You do,"

A smile tugs at the corner of Derek's mouth. "Good," He says, reaching up and placing a hand on the back of Jackson's head. "Then that's all I need..."

Derek pulls Jackson in towards him and kisses him. The angle is awkward, and Jackson has to shift around a little before he can get comfortable, but once he does he kisses Derek back as hard as he can. He has a strange, desperate need clawing at his chest, and worryingly enough he doesn't think it has anything to do with sex. It's for Derek, but not just his body, all of him. His stupid hair and his evil monster eyes, and the way he sometimes makes growling noises in his sleep. His grumpy expressions, and his awful burned up house... every part of him, every facet of his stupid annoying existence.

Oh, this is just a catastrophe.

When Jackson finally pulls back, he's breathless and his face is lightly flushed. "You never answered my question," He says. "Do you ever miss it? The annoyed-and-scared-but-not-hate-sex sex?"

Derek looks up at him, and seems to be considering his question. "Well... it was good sex," He allows. Jackson nods in agreement. "But I think it's probably better this way." Derek's eyes flick away for a second, then move back to meet Jackson's. Jackson wonders if he's only imagining that he looks nervous. "Right?"

Without hesitation, Jackson nods. "Yeah, yeah it is."

Derek smiles at him, for once a real, actual smile. No malice, no smirk. And Jackson can't help but feel that strange sense of need and longing again.

Absolute catastrophe... but he supposes he'll live.

If Jackson's being totally honest with himself, he has to admit he doesn't really know if he's any less miserable now than he was a few months ago. But he thinks he could be. Less miserable... maybe even happy.

Jackson settles back against his headboard, and Derek leans back against his chest. Jackson reaches for his hand again, and this time he doesn't change his mind. He grabs his hand, and their fingers twine together. And Jackson thinks he could be very happy, indeed.

  
**THE END**   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to say thanks to everyone who stuck with this fic through the stupidly long waits between chapters (which I apologize for!). I hope you liked the fic and the ending, and will stick around for the other Halemore fics I plan to write.


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